


Superior

by Teeelsie



Series: Superior [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Clint Barton, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making up my own timeline, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: Fury casts a dark glance at the closed door, then leans back in his chair and looks at Coulson.  “I’ve got an asset that’s coming apart at the seams and maybe the only person who can relate is sitting right next to him.  Figuratively, anyway.”“And you think isolating him with someone else who’s been mind-controlled is the way to get him out of his head?”Fury tips his head.  “You don’t think it will work?”Phil shrugs.  “It might.”“But?”Phil hesitates before saying, “But there’s a lot that could go wrong.”Fury snorts.  “Isn’t that the SHIELD motto?”ORBAMF WinterHawk in the north woods.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heuradys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heuradys/gifts).



> For Heuradys, who won a fic from me in the Marvel Trumps Hate Auction and asked for a WinterHawk get together. She asked for a Canadian shack; I put them in a cabin in northern Wisconsin. Thanks so much, sweets! I sincerely hope this is to your liking!
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a throwback to that fanon world that's post-Avengers and post-CAtWS, but where Steve got to Bucky and he's with the Avengers at the Tower. I'm also compressing the timeline so for this fic's purposes, CAtWS happened just a few months after BoNY, and it's now a few months after that. It's also one of those fanon fics where Coulson and Fury didn't pretend die and SHIELD is still limping along after the events of CAtWS. 
> 
> If anyone's interested, here are a few links to inspiration images to set the mood:
> 
> https://www.mountainproject.com/photo/105895003/palisade-in-a-winter-storm-december-2006  
> https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lake_Superior_North_Shore(v2).jpg  
> https://www.shutterstock.com/search/boreal  
> https://www.homeaway.com/vacation-rental/p3530321
> 
>    
> Thanks to Jackdaws45 for always helpful feedback!

 

Two knocks and the door opens. “He’s here, Sir.”

 

“Thank you, Margorie.”

 

Rogers nods his thanks to Fury’s assistant as he steps past her through the door. “You asked to see me, Sir?”

 

Fury sits back in his chair. “Have a seat, Captain. I’d like to talk to you about Barnes.”

 

****

 

“You’re sending me out?” Clint looks with cautious surprise between Fury and Coulson, who has his arms crossed and is leaning one shoulder against the wall.

 

“Surveillance. We need your eyes,” Fury says pointedly.

 

Clint clenches his jaw but he doesn’t say anything.

 

Fury cuts his eye over to Coulson who steps closer and opens a holographic screen, tapping periodically as he talks. “We have intelligence that a new organization is attempting to define covert routes into the U.S. for the purpose of smuggling large quantities of illegal weapons to markets in urban areas. We're told that they’ll be making trial runs in the next several weeks with the aim of beginning to move the weapons after the New Year. If the intelligence is correct, we’re talking about unprecedented numbers of weapons. There’s indication that the new routes will be water-based so we’re monitoring a number of possibilities. We don’t want to engage them at this point, just monitor and record so when they do move a shipment, we’ll be ready.”

 

Clint nods his understanding. Adrenaline is starting to hum through him, because even if it is a fairly standard surveillance op and he’s run scores of them, it’s been a long time since they've sent him to do _anything_.

 

Coulson opens a new screen with a map; there are dozens of red dots scattered along coastal areas. Clint immediately starts scanning them, mentally assessing the likelihood of each.  He's narrowing in on the handful that he thinks have the most potential when the map skips away from where Clint's focused and zooms in tight on one of the dots.

 

“Lake Superior?” Clint asks with obvious skepticm. The chances of anyone trying to smuggle guns via Lake Superior in winter are close to nil. The lake doesn’t wholly freeze up very often, but it can, and the areas along the shore definitely do.

 

Coulson hums in agreement, but when his face takes on a decidedly apologetic expression, Clint starts to get a sinking feeling. “While it’s unlikely that they’ll be choosing such a northern route during the winter, we do need to cover all potential access points,” Coulson says, then taps the screen and a picture of a bluff-top cabin appears.

 

Clint curses under his breath. He’s being relegated to the lowest probability site. Obsolete. He helped save the goddamned world less than a year ago and now he’s deemed to be virtually useless. Not to mention that he _hates_ the fucking cold – even the idea of it – ever since a fucking Ice Giant took over his head.

 

“Is there a problem, Agent?” Fury asks, in that friendly way that anyone who knows Fury at all knows is him being anything but friendly.

 

Clint stands and jabs a finger at the screen, closing it down. “No, Sir. When do I leave?”

 

“Flight plan has you and Barnes wheels-up in two hours.”

 

Clint’s head snaps up and he looks back and forth between the two men. “ _Barnes?_ ”

 

"Mmhm,” Coulson confirms. “We want to assess his capabilities in real world situations.”

 

Well, that explains Coulson’s presence at this meeting, then. Clint narrows his eyes. “Then why not send him out on something with Captain America?”

 

“Rogers isn’t objective,” Coulson says.

 

That’s probably true, but Clint’s face still heats in anger. “Is this even a real op?” he grits out.

 

“I can assure you, Agent, that this mission has legitimate purpose,” Fury answers smoothly.

 

Clint doesn’t try to stop the sound of disbelief that comes from his throat.

 

“You have something to say?” Fury asks, cocking his head dangerously.

 

Clint looks Fury in the eye. “Yeah, sure. It’s a bullshit babysitting gig. If you want to get rid of me, _Sir,_ then just fucking cut me loose now instead of sending me out to train my replacement.”

 

“Agent, if I wanted to be rid of you, you’d be long gone by now.”

 

Clint snorts derisively.

 

Fury leans forward ominously. “I do not give two shits what you may think of this, Agent. We need you to do your fucking job. So if you want to _keep_ your job, then you will have your ass on that plane and you will work with Asset Barnes.”

 

Clint pushes an angry breath through his nose. “Yes, Sir,” he grinds out, shooting a betrayed glare at Coulson before stalking out of the office. He leaves the door pointedly open behind him.

 

Phil crosses the room and shuts the door with a quiet ‘snick’ before sitting down across from Fury in the chair Hawkeye vacated. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.  

 

Fury rolls his eye and sighs. “Barton’s _feelings_ aren’t my biggest concern here, Phil.”

 

“It was a risky play.”

 

Fury grins sharkishly. “Not with you in the room.”

 

“Maybe,” Phil concedes. “But are you sure this is a good idea? Barnes is still largely an unknown.”

 

Fury pauses. “We need his skills.  And he needs to get out of his own head.”  

 

“What are you hoping to accomplish here, Nick?”

 

Fury casts a dark glance at the closed door, then leans back in his chair and looks at Coulson. “I’ve got an asset who's coming apart at the seams and maybe the only person who can relate is sitting right next to him. Figuratively, anyway.”

 

“And you think isolating him with someone else who’s been mind-controlled is the way to get him out of his head?”

 

Fury tips his head. “You don’t think it will work?”

 

Phil shrugs. “It might.”

 

“But?”

 

Phil hesitates before saying, “But there’s a lot that could go wrong, too.”

 

Fury snorts. “Isn’t that the SHIELD motto?” A second later he waves it off and sighs. “It’s the best play I’ve got left and my gut tells me the clock is ticking on this one. Besides, I’m not running a goddamned daycare here. This Hydra bullshit decimated our numbers; we need every asset we can get. We can’t afford to sit here with our thumbs up our asses and wait to see if he comes around. If he’s not going to be useful to us, we need to find an alternative.”

 

Phil responds with a noncommittal hum.

 

“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

 

Phil sighs. “I don’t,” he admits, shaking his head, then, “Rogers is really okay with this?”

 

“He wasn’t thrilled. He’s too protective of Barnes, but I think he knows that if he can’t get over that, it’ll never work with Barnes as part of the Avengers, and he wants that badly.”

 

“So… killing two birds with one stone?”

 

“We do strive to be efficient,” Fury answers, spreading his hands wide.

 

Phil huffs and makes his way out of the office.

 


	2. Aurora Borealis

 

Gear for the op is already loaded on the plane, and the cabin will be fully stocked with everything they need except personal items, but Clint always brings his own weapons, so he’s brought three of his own rifles and a couple of Glocks. Phil tracks him down as he’s stowing them for the flight, and Clint knows he’s there, but he doesn’t turn around as he’s making room to fit the guns in the compartment. Whoever loaded the other supplies had clearly never put together a fucking puzzle before. Or loaded a dishwasher.  

 

“Are you okay?”  

 

Clint bristles at the question. “Sure. I’m great. I’m going to northern Wisconsin in December. What could be better?”

 

When he finally has things rearranged so that his gear will fit, he turns to get his weapons. Coulson is holding one of the rifle cases, looking down at it with a complicated expression.      

 

“Don’t,” Clint says tightly as he reaches out and snatches the gun from Coulson’s hands without making eye-contact.

 

To his credit, Coulson doesn’t say what Clint knows he wants to. Instead he says, “Clint, this isn’t punishment.”

 

Clint scoffs his complete and utter rejection of the statement.

 

Phil sighs. “You’re too valuable to SHIELD not to have you in the fight.”

 

“Yeah?” He slides the rifle into a narrow slot and then grabs another from Coulson. “And the fight’s in northern Wisconsin, is it?”

 

“There’s a bigger picture here and you know it,” Coulson says.

 

So much for not going there. But they’ve had this conversation before and Clint’s not interested in having it again so he ignores what Coulson’s said and squats down to move more things around in the compartment to make room for his pistol case.

 

Coulson puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and Clint reacts without thinking, grabbing Phil’s wrist and standing abruptly to twist it in a way he knows is painful. Coulson could get out of the hold in a split-second but he doesn’t, he just stands completely still and searches Clint’s face as he waits to be released.

 

Clint curses and drops Coulson’s hand.

 

“You know I’m on your side,” Coulson says, rubbing his wrist, unconcerned about allowing Clint to see how much it hurts. “I will _always_ be on your side.”

 

“Even if Fury’s on the other side?”

 

“Fury’s not against you, Clint. I wish you could see that.”

 

Something catches Clint’s eye and he looks over Coulson’s shoulder to see Rogers and Barnes arriving across the tarmac. They both look tense, but Rogers more so than Barnes.

 

He brings his eyes fully to Coulson’s face for the first time. “Just… tell me I’m not walking into a clusterfuck here, Phil,” he says, his voice pitched low so the approaching men won’t hear him.

 

“As you said, there’s very little chance that they’ll use Lake Superior as—”

 

“I’m not talking about that.” He flicks his eyes to Barnes and back. “I’m talking about…” He steps closer and looks right into Phil’s eyes when he says, low and serious, “Tell me that the Winter Soldier isn’t going to suddenly appear and rip my head off.”

 

That actually seems to throw Coulson, whose eyes go the tiniest bit wide before he rushes to answer. “ _No_. _God,_ no. We’re as sure as we can be that he’s completely free of Hydra’s programming. Jesus, Clint, you have to know I’d never intentionally send you into a situation like that.” Coulson’s voice is full of regret and sadness and apology.

 

Clint closes his eyes and tries to dismiss his doubts. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” And he does. But he’s not so sure he can say the same thing about Fury.

 

Rogers and Barnes are approaching now, so Phil doesn’t respond. Instead, he puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder again and gives it a light squeeze before turning to go. As he passes the two men, he pauses to talk to them, but they’re too far away and there’s some wind, so Clint can’t hear what they’re saying. Coulson leaves but Rogers and Barnes stay where they are, continuing their conversation on the tarmac.

 

Clint tries not to stare but the ripple of muscle under form-fitting clothes is hard to drag his eyes away from. He can’t help sighing. He’s in excellent condition, having had little else to do for the last six months other than work out, and he’s got nothing to be ashamed of in that department. But the other two men are super soldiers - human perfection - and Clint knows they're decidedly superior to him. He watches them from the shadows of the jet for a few more seconds before reminding himself that he’s never been a masochist, then returns to his task. He’s closing the storage compartment when Rogers and Barnes finally step up the ramp at the back of the jet.

 

“Agent Barton.” Rogers reaches out and they shake hands.

 

“Captain Rogers,” Clint acknowledges with a small nod.

 

“It’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

 

In the first few months after New York, Rogers had been around SHIELD pretty regularly, meeting with Fury and Hill. And Phil, until Clint’s handler left to liaise directly with the Avengers (Clint misses the hell out of Phil). Rogers always made a point to seek Clint wherever he was, and check in with him. Clint didn’t really get it and it made him uncomfortable; his eyes were too kind and his words too gentle.

 

Of course, he’s rarely come around since the whole, oh-yeah-by-the-way-SHIELD-is-really-Hydra fiasco a few months ago, since Cap and Nat had found the Winter Soldier and brought him back to New York as Bucky Barnes. Scuttlebutt has them living at the Avengers Tower, but according to Nat, Rogers is extremely protective of him so they don’t show their face more often than strictly necessary.  

 

“I’m fine, Sir,” Clint answers, before leaning forward and extending his hand toward Barnes and flashing the most sincere smile he can conjure up. “Hi. Clint Barton.” This may be the shit-ass bottom of the pile of shit-ass jobs, but he can be goddamned professional about it. Fury can go fuck himself if he thinks this bullshit op is going to prove that Clint can’t do his job as well as he ever has.

 

“Bucky Barnes,” the other man says, gripping his hand.

 

Clint’s seen a few grainy photos of the Winter Soldier and he couldn’t help noticing that the man was built like a fortress, but in person and close up, it’s the striking blue of his eyes that grabs Clint’s immediate attention. Damn. The black and white photos from WWII didn’t capture that.

 

Clint sees Barnes' eyes sweep over him in a way that could be telling in certain circumstances, but this surely isn’t one of them. Clint doesn’t miss much, though, and the contemplative expression on Rogers’ face as he tilts his head the tiniest fraction has Clint rethinking his first assumption. Doesn’t matter; Clint pushes it aside and takes Barnes duffle to stow for him.

 

“Be careful, Buck,” Rogers says, and Clint steals a glance in time to see Barnes roll his eyes.

 

He also peers quickly down at Barnes’ left hand, which is silver and intricately detailed in a way that Clint wasn’t expecting. If he didn’t know the story behind it, he’d think it was beautiful. A second later, he realizes Barnes saw him and Clint feels like a jerk. “Sorry, man. You know, just, haven’t seen anything like it before.”

 

“’S alright,” Barnes mumbles with a shrug. “I know it’s not exactly standard issue.”

 

Clint registers that Rogers is watching their exchange closely, maybe slightly nervously.

 

“Well, I hope you packed your thermals,” Clint says to try to move them beyond any awkwardness. “It’s gonna be cold where we’re going.”

 

Barnes just grunts in reply, then turns to Rogers. “See ya later, Stevie.”

 

“Take care of yourself, Buck,” Rogers replies with a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You too, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint throws a sloppy salute Rogers’ way and heads toward the cockpit where he can keep an eye on the pilot.

 

****

 

They are deposited outside of Duluth where there’s an SUV waiting. Clint had stayed in the cockpit for the whole of the two-hour flight, so he and Barnes hadn’t really talked. If he’s honest with himself, he can admit that Barnes is probably the last person on earth he wants to be cooped up with for several weeks. Clint knows Barnes’ story: captured by Hydra during WWII, brainwashed into an assassin, used for 70 years but stashed on ice in between ops. It’s beyond horrifying, and it strikes too close to home for Clint, who has no desire, ever, to talk about what happened under Loki’s compulsion.

 

Once they’re alone in the rig he figures he won’t be able to really avoid talking any longer. Turns out not to be a problem, though, because Barnes seems lost in his own thoughts and he doesn’t really say anything, just stares out the window and watches the landscape pass them by.

 

“Never been to Wisconsin,” Barnes says about an hour into the drive. Clint slides a glance at him for a second before returning his attention to the road. He doesn’t seem edgy or anxious; more interested and curious, and his bright, blue eyes seem to be scanning and cataloging everything in their sightline.

 

Clint’s seen pretty much all of Wisconsin. Carson’s had traveled primarily in the Midwest so he’s been to almost every county in all these states. “Parts of it are really beautiful,” Clint acknowledges, and it’s almost a surprise. His mind hadn’t thought of things in those terms as an adolescent, but in retrospect, some of the places he pulls up in his memory are amazingly picturesque.  

 

Barnes just nods and goes back to staring.

 

****

 

They turn off the highway onto a narrow, dirt road with potholes so big they could practically swallow the rig. The going is slow for about a mile as they dodge around or crawl through them, before they turn into the drive to the cabin that they’ll be calling home for the next who-knows-how-long. Clint reviewed the pre-op intel and studied SHIELD’s satellite imagery on the quinjet, so he knows that the road keeps winding for a few miles before it curves back around toward the lake and dead-ends at a parking lot for a small public beach. There are a few other houses dotted between here and there, but given the season, neither the road nor the beach should be getting much use.

 

Their cabin – a literal log cabin - is on the northern tip of Bayfield County, on the wide peninsula that juts into Lake Superior. The Apostle Islands sprinkle to the north and Clint has to admit, they’d provide pretty good cover for smugglers, blocking the view of the horizon the way they do. The secluded cabin sits in the woods, about twenty yards from a rocky bluff that overlooks the lake, a straight drop of maybe a hundred feet. There’s good cover to watch the shoreline for about a quarter mile in each direction. The closest neighbor is a half-mile away as a crow flies, but a couple miles on that shitty road.  

 

It’s tight quarters, but efficient and workable space for two. Most of the cabin is composed of a single, large, open room on the main level, with an open loft above. The living room has a sizeable fireplace, but the cabin has gas heat so Clint’s not sure how much use it will get. A couch faces the fireplace and two chairs with ottomans flank it, forming a comfortable sitting area. There’s a massive television above the fireplace and the shelves on either side are a mix of random books and DVDs. A kitchen is situated along half of the wall opposite the fireplace and there’s a table tucked along the other side. Behind the kitchen are a small but serviceable bathroom with a stackable washer and dryer, and a walk-in pantry that’s fully stocked and has a deep freeze, as well.

 

There’s a third door, metal and locked. Clint places his thumb against the small electronic pad and the door opens with a hiss. Clint scans the room – it’s a fairly standard SHIELD-safehouse combination tech-room and armory. It’s small, about eight-feet-square, but efficiently designed.

 

Having the lay of the land, he retreats to the front room where he’s dropped his gear and grabs the guns he’s brought with him. Clint returns to the tech room and presses his thumb to the biometric lock on the weapons locker and the door releases. When he looks inside, his stomach turns and he curses under his breath.

 

“What?” Barnes asks, materializing out of nowhere behind him. Clint glances over his shoulder; Barnes is coiled and ready for trouble.

 

“Nothing,” Clint answers as he takes the guns from their cases and slots them into the locker.

 

“Is that your bow?” Barnes asks him, still standing close.

 

Clint’s eyes scan the weapon that’s sitting prominently in the center of the locker. Even without taking it out and examining it he can tell it’s a sweet recurve, probably made especially for him by SHIELD’s finest. “No. It’s not my bow,” he says with more irritation than he’d like to reveal, and shuts the locker decisively.

 

Barnes’ eyebrows knit together but before he can ask any more questions, Clint steps around him and returns to the living room where he grabs his duffle and heads up the stairs. The open loft projects over half of the room below and has two queen sized beds, each with its own night stand and lamp. A walk-in closet has a rod for hanging things and two small dressers. Barnes has followed him up and they both unpack in silence.    

 

Clint digs through the pantry and pulls out ingredients to put together a quick, simple meal of pasta with meat sauce and a green salad. Over dinner, Clint fills Barnes in on SHIELD safehouse protocols and SOP. Coulson briefed Barnes thoroughly on the op so they discuss a few details but there’s not much to say about it. Still, Clint is impressed with how Barnes puts pieces together quickly and asks smart questions.

 

Barnes is not at all what Clint had been expecting. He’d expected him to be tightly-wound, intense, all sharp edges and defensive resentment, and Clint had been prepared to put up his own walls in response. But as Barnes has settled into the cabin, he is none of those things, and the reticence from the car ride seems to have disappeared. He talks unguardedly, and he’s soft-spoken, his voice almost gentle.  The shy smile that shows itself repeatedly has Clint working hard to ignore the things his brain wants to say about it.

 

They’ve nearly finished eating when Barnes smiles again and it strikes Clint that Barnes has none of the fear of him nor suspicion that nearly everyone at SHIELD does these days. He’s been treated like something of a pariah by all but a few people at the agency in the last six months. It’s okay; Clint gets it. Hell, he knows he deserves worse than he’s gotten. But seeing Barnes look at him without judgement, and knowing it will just be the two of them here for an unknown length of time, makes the muscles in Clint’s shoulders, neck, and back unlock in a way they haven’t since before Loki.

 

Barnes offers to clean up the kitchen since Clint cooked, so Clint wanders over to the shelves by the fireplace. There are a couple of books that look interesting and he pulls them out and scans the back covers. He decides on one and returns the other, then burrows into one of the chairs and gets comfortable. When Barnes settles onto the couch a little later, he boots up a laptop, slips in some earbuds and starts watching a video, what looks to be a documentary of some kind.

 

It’s near silent in the cabin except for the small whir of the laptop’s fan and the faint, tinny sound that he can sometimes hear coming from the earbuds. Try as he might, Clint cannot keep his focus on the book because his attention keeps being drawn over to Barnes every couple of minutes. He looks relaxed and at ease - again, not at all what Clint was expecting. The fourth time he glances over, Barnes is watching him back. The atmosphere in the room seems to crackle before the other man gives a hesitant smile, then goes back to his movie. After a few more minutes Clint closes his book since there’s no point in continuing to pretend he’s absorbing any of the words he’s read. He’s feeling antsy after the day of little physical inactivity, and unmoored by his unexpected reaction to the other man, so he signals to Barnes that he’s going for a walk, then pulls on his heavy coat, boots, hat and gloves, and slips out the door.

 

There’s no snow here yet, but it's bitterly cold – unseasonably so, even for Wisconsin in December. Just his fucking luck. The night is clear and the moon and stars provide enough light for him to easily manage without a flashlight, so he sets a steady pace and trots through the woods. He makes a loop around the cabin property and scopes out the closest neighbor, which isn’t that close and looks to be unoccupied. When he circles back, he doesn’t go to the house, instead stops at the bluff and stands with half of each foot hanging over the edge. He can hear waves gently lapping at the shore down below.

 

Far away from any cities, the stars are strikingly bright and Clint’s eyes automatically seek out Orion. When he was a kid, the fortune teller at Carson’s had first pointed it out to him and explained how the Hunter constellation is always prominently visible in the winter sky. From that point on, Clint had privately claimed it as his own. Most people talked about Orion’s belt, or his sword, but, not surprisingly, it was his bow that always captured Clint’s imagination.  Thinking about it now just starts to makes him feel ill, so he drops his gaze back down below the horizon to the deep dark of Lake Superior.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there when he hears Barnes approach, making enough noise that Clint understands he’s doing it on purpose. He steps up next to Clint, a half-step back so his feet are solidly on the ground, but close enough that if Clint shifted sideways just a few millimeters, their arms would brush against one another.

 

“You like to live dangerously?” Barnes asks him, a hint of humor in his voice.

 

Clint huffs. “I grew up in a circus. Not afraid of heights.”

 

Barnes shifts, and there’s a beat before he says, “A circus? Are you pulling my leg?”

 

Clint turns his head and flashes a small, rueful smile. “Nope.”

 

“Well, I guess that explains some things.”

 

“Does it?” he asks, light, not allowing any of the automatic defensiveness he feels creep into the words.

 

Barnes shrugs. “I watched footage from the fight in New York. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody be that deadly and that graceful at the same time. You could teach Stevie a thing or two.” The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

 

That wasn’t what Clint expected him to say, but he finds himself laughing a little. From what Clint has seen, Rogers can literally do almost anything, but it’s true, he’s often far from graceful doing it. “I think Rogers just powers his way through things with the serum in his blood. The acrobats at the circus taught me a little more finesse,” he says, smiling to himself at what are actually some of his few happy memories from Carson’s.

 

“Is that where you learned to use a bow?”

 

The smile drops from Clint’s face and he narrows his eyes. “Why are you so interested in my bow?”

 

Barnes lifts one eyebrow. “Not like there are a lot of people out there who use a bow as a weapon. I can’t be the first person who’s been curious about it. The same way you’re curious about my arm.” He tips his head fractionally, gesturing to his left side.

 

He’s not wrong; Clint’s curious as hell. His eyes automatically dart down to Barnes hand, but he’s got a glove on the prosthetic. He wonders if the metal hand registers cold the way his human hand does or if he just put the glove on it for symmetry. Objectively, he understands Barnes’ interest in the bow. That doesn’t mean he’s going to talk about it. Clint changes tack. “Why are you here, Barnes?”

 

He scrutinizes Clint for a few more seconds and then turns to stare out over the lake. “Because Coulson asked and I was sick to death of that Tower.”  Barnes shrugs. “Because it’s probably time to stop hiding.”

 

“What’ve you been hiding from?”

 

“The world? This life I woke up in?” He pauses. “The memories of the things I did.” The last is more an admission than question.  Barnes takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “But I know I can’t hide forever, so when Coulson asked, I figured I might as well do something different.” He flashes a weak smile at Clint before turning back toward the water.

 

He says it so casually: _the memories of the things I did_. Like he’s remembering going out for coffee the day before. But Barnes lived through 70 years of something akin to what Clint experienced under Loki’s three-day thrall and he feels a sudden morbid desire to compare notes with someone who might actually understand. Clint side-eyes him for a long moment, and he still almost surprises himself when he asks, “How much do you remember?”

 

Barnes nods slowly, accepting the direction of the conversation. “Probably not everything. They wiped my memories every time, but some would always bleed through eventually. I remember enough, though.”

 

“Enough?”

 

“Enough to know that I have a lot to atone for.”

 

“Red in your ledger,” Clint murmurs, more to himself than Barnes.

   

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement. “How ‘bout you?” he asks, apparently aware of Clint's background.

 

Clint’s never talked to anyone about it – beyond the lengthy debrief he was subjected to after the battle - even though he’s been sitting through bi-weekly psych appointments for months. He always intends to – sort of - but when he opens his mouth to try to explain, the words die in his throat at the surety that there is no explanation. Because even he can’t believe that there wasn’t a way he could have broken free of Loki’s control. He mostly spends his sessions dodging any attempt to talk about it. Or why he hasn’t been on the archery range in months. Somehow, though, it seems the easiest thing in the world to say, “I remember every goddamned second of it.”

 

Bucky stares out at the water and seems to consider. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually.

 

Clint’s said those two words since Loki – out loud a few times and about a million times in his head - but it blindsides him to hear them said toward him and filled with so much pathos and understanding. His eyes blur and he blinks rapidly, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. He wants to respond but can’t, certain that if he opens his mouth, the only thing that will come out is a sob, but Clint’s held it together this long so there’s no fucking way he’s going to let himself fall apart now. Instead, he pushes the thoughts away and lets the bitingly cold wind dry his eyes as he scans the lake, instinctively watching for anything that shouldn’t be there.

 

A few minutes later, after Clint’s reined in his control, he turns to Barnes. “You know this is a bullshit op, right? I mean, there’s like, zero chance that these guys are going to use a route through Lake Superior to move weapons.”

 

Barnes nods. “Sounds about right,” he answers. “Makes sense that they’d send me on something like this. They’re testing me.” He finally turns toward Clint. “But why are you here?”

 

Clint turns to look out at the lake again. “I’m being punished.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Maybe you missed it on the news but I spearheaded Loki’s attack and am responsible for the deaths of scores of people.” Clint wipes a hand down his face. He’s suddenly exhausted.

 

In his peripheral vision, Clint can see Barnes studying his face and there’s something about it that’s unsettling, like Barnes can see past the artifice and into his head.

 

“I didn’t miss it, but if you’re being punished, it’s not for that,” Barnes says eventually.

 

He turns and makes himself meet Barnes’ gaze, if only to prove to himself that he can. “Yeah? What makes you think that?”

 

Barnes looks completely sure of himself when he says, “Because they’re not punishing me, so why would they punish you?”

 

It’s a long moment before Clint responds. Again, he surprises himself when the truth tumbles from his mouth. “They want me to do something that I’m not gonna do, so they’ve benched me,” Clint admits. “Except for this. Which is how I know it’s a bullshit op.”

 

Barnes tips his head a little. “What is it that you won’t do?”

 

Clint blows out a long breath, a visible fog in the frigid air. “Doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, and then, not wanting to continue the conversation any longer, he rubs his gloved hands together and adds, “It’s too damn cold. I’m heading in.” Barnes doesn’t make a move to return with him so Clint leaves him there alone and trudges back to the cabin.

 

****

 

The surveillance part of the op is simple. They have six drones that do the heavy lifting, flying in concentric circles three at a time, 24/7; they just need to monitor the equipment and switch out the drones every six hours on a rotating basis so they can recharge. They don’t really even need to watch closely since the logarithm that runs the software will ping their phones if any anomalies appear. Still, one of them generally stays in the cabin to stick close to the equipment.

 

When it’s not his turn to be the primary monitor, Clint likes to walk along the bluff and check things out with his own eyes, partly because he trusts his eyes more than any machine, and partly because he hates being cooped up all the time. The temperature’s been hovering around 15 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and dropping below zero at night but he still goes out, because freedom always trumps cold. Barnes seems to feel the same way and as often as not, he ducks out the door himself when he has the chance.

 

They settle into their coexistence. Barnes spends a lot of his time in the cabin watching more documentaries, telling Clint that it’s the most efficient way he’s found to catch up on all the history he missed. He jumps around in time rather than going chronologically, latching onto whatever seems to capture his interest, but almost everything is post-WWII. After a couple of days, Clint tosses the book aside and they hook Barnes’ laptop up to the television and Clint watches with him. They’re interesting, and he always learns something new. Increasingly, Barnes peppers Clint with questions about his own experience or perceptions about events. One question leads to another and another, then Clint’s asking them, and that quickly leads to easy, comfortable conversations about anything and everything, not just history. Coexistence shifts to friendly companionship that Clint enjoys more than he wants to admit. Clint’s only ever felt this relaxed and calm in a safehouse with Phil and Nat. He’d never been attracted to Phil or Nat the way he finds himself drawn to Barnes, though.

 

On the sixth night, over dinner, Barnes asks him questions about the 1970s since the documentary they’ve been watching is all about the tumultuous decade. He looks slightly lost when Clint tries to explain the rise of punk rock music the best he can, which isn’t all that great because he came of age well past its heyday and grew up in a circus besides. Barnes listens raptly but looks even more confused.

 

Clint huffs at the bewildered expression. ”You been watching these back in New York, too?”

 

Barnes nods. “Yeah, me and Steve. He’s caught up on a lot of this stuff but he still sits through most of them with me. He can’t really give it perspective like you can though.”

 

Clint scrapes the last of his mashed potatoes up with his fork and just before he shoves it into his mouth, he says, “Yeah, well, I’m not sure my perspective is really all that valuable.”

 

Barnes’ face darkens. “Why would you say that?”

 

Clint swallows and tips his head, a little thrown by how defensive Barnes sounds on Clint’s behalf. “I just mean that I had a seriously atypical childhood and worse than shitty education, so I’m not going to be able to provide insight into how regular people would have viewed the events.”

 

“I’m not interested in regular people, I’m—” Barnes cuts himself off, then blinks and quickly looks down at his plate. Clint could swear he sees a slight flush creeping up Barnes neck.

 

Ah, shit.

 

Before Clint can formulate a response, Barnes stands up and takes his plate to the kitchen, then tells him he’s taking a walk. He’s gone in seconds flat.

 

Clint cleans up the kitchen, then sits at the workstation in the armory with his Glocks and sets to cleaning them. They don’t need it – they haven’t been fired - but for Clint, having his hands complete the rote task he could do blindfolded is a way to focus his mind. He turns over the conversation in his head, wondering if he read Barnes correctly.  He mostly hopes not.  It's one thing to be attracted to your bunkmate; it's another much more complicated thing if the feelings are returned.  Especially given who and where they are.  He's trying to decide what to do about it, and reassembling the second pistol, when Barnes’ voice floats through his ear.

 

“Hey, Barton.” He sounds calm but there’s something slightly off in his voice.

 

Clint’s eyes flash to the monitoring equipment; all quiet. He reaches up and taps his comms unit. “Yeah?”

 

“Those weapons. Did anyone say anything to you about them being alien in nature?”

 

Clint slams the last piece of the gun into place and grabs his coat, practically before Barnes gets the words fully out. “Where are you?” he asks, bursting out the front door of the cabin.

 

“At the bluff.”

 

Clint sprints toward the lake and a few seconds later he breaks through the line of trees and… _oh_. He slows his gait and tucks the gun into the back of his pants as he steps up alongside Barnes, who never takes his eyes from the horizon.

 

The sky is ablaze in pink and purple. “Relax, Barnes. It’s nothing to worry about.”

 

“Mind telling me what the hell it is, Barton?” he asks, his voice tight.

 

“Aurora borealis. The northern lights.”

 

“Yeah? What the hell is that?” His voice still sounds strained.

 

“It’s like, gas particles colliding with electrically charged particles or something. They can be all sorts of colors – I’ve seen it with green and yellow, too. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

“I… I’ve never heard of it before,” he says, sounding frustrated.

 

“Look, it’s not something a lot of people ever see,” Clint tries to reassure him. “It only happens near the poles so in the U.S. you have to be pretty far north. You never would have seen it in Brooklyn.”

 

Next to him, Bucky stares for a minute before closing his eyes. “I hate this,” he says quietly.

 

“What?”

 

Barnes hesitates for a moment then pushes out a frustrated breath. “Feeling like this. Like I don’t belong here. Or anywhere.”

 

A hard knot forms in Clint’s stomach at the defeat in his voice. “I get it. Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve spent pretty much my whole life feeling the same way.”

 

Barnes turns to fully face him, and Clint prides himself on seeing everything, but he does not see it coming when Barnes leans forward and presses his lips to Clint’s. Every molecule in Clint’s body wants to shudder and melt into it, but he’s practiced enough not to let that happen. When Barnes pulls back a second later, Clint studies his face, looking for explanation.

 

Barnes gives him a half-grin and shrugs. “Thanks,” he says.

 

Whoa. “Hang on, back up. You don’t have to—”

 

“Jesus, Barton, _I know_ ,” he interrupts, pointedly rolling his eyes. “I know. I just wanted to, okay?” The half-grin returns and he starts to lean in again, but Clint stops him with a palm to the chest. Barnes looks surprised.

 

“Look… I’m not saying I wouldn’t be interested under different circumstances. But this is not a good idea.”

 

Barnes considers for a few seconds. “You wanna tell me why?”

 

“Because I’m all kinds of messed up and not someone you should probably be getting involved with.” He thinks Barnes has got to be dealing with his own shit as well, after what he’s been through, but Clint doesn’t say that.

 

“But you _are_ interested,” he says – not asks – with a full grin this time, and Clint thinks he’s getting a look at the smooth-talker Bucky Barnes from before WWII.

 

This time, Clint’s the one to roll his eyes.

 

“So just out of curiosity, under what circumstances _would_ you be interested?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe when I’ve got my head on straight. And sometime when we’re not on a long-term op. Trust me, people always seem much more interesting when you’re stuck in a safehouse together for who knows how long. Getting involved when you’re in close quarters is a bad idea because you’ll most likely wake up the next day and regret it.”  It’s true; Clint’s been there and done that and it's always ended up being a mistake.

 

Barnes thinks about it for a moment. “I don’t think I would, and I don’t think your head is as messed up as you think it is. But okay, Barton. But I'll come find you when this op is over.”

 

Clint huffs. “Yeah, sure,” he answers.  It's easy to say because he's 100% certain that Barnes will have changed his mind once he’s back with Rogers and becomes an Avenger, and Clint is… who knows where.  

 

Barnes turns back to watch the sky and Clint drops down and sits with his legs dangling over the cliff’s edge. The stone is cold beneath him and the discomfort of it immediately seeps into his body. He finally zips his coat and stuffs his hands in his pocket, but otherwise ignores it. “Come on. Might as well enjoy the show.”

 

Barnes does and they sit in companionable silence watching the lightshow, which is one of the more spectacular that Clint can remember seeing. In the quiet, Clint thinks about what Barnes said, remembers the many times he felt like an outsider: in foster homes; at the circus; when he realized he was gay; at SHIELD, especially in the months since Loki. He learned at a young age how to pull the protective shell around himself, finding self-preservation in keeping distance between himself and other people. But when he thinks about the gentle, tentative kiss, it’s surprisingly simple for him to say, “All things considered, it seems like we could be on a first-name basis, so, uh, you know, it's Clint.”

 

“Bucky,” Barnes says a moment later and Clint sees his mouth curve into a small smile.

 

When the colors finally disappear and the sky returns to inky black more than an hour later, Clint bumps his shoulder against Barnes’ and stands. “Come on, Bucky. Let’s get some sleep,” he says, then holds back a groan at the way the stiff cold has settled deep into his bones. It was worth it though, for more than one reason.

 

****

 

The awkwardness Clint worries about never materializes. Instead, a simmering heat settles between them, pleasant and comfortable, rather than frustrating or maddening. Bucky is fascinated by the northern lights so he goes walking every night after dinner hoping to see them again. They must be getting just the right convergence of conditions because they come more often than not. When they do, Bucky murmurs Clint’s name over the comm without any additional explanation and Clint bundles up and joins him. By the third time, Clint’s dug some lawn chairs out of the storage shed so they don’t have to sit on the frigid stone of the bluff. They watch and talk about anything and nothing in particular until the colors fade.

 

It’s dangerous how much Clint enjoys it.

 

****

 

Ten days into their op, Bucky’s out walking and Clint’s watching the feed from the drones when he notices something. “Bucky,” he radios. “I’m going to go check something out.”

 

“Wait. I’ll be right there.”

 

Clint takes his time as he bundles into his cold-weather gear and a minute later, Bucky steps through the door. “Trouble?”

 

The drones had picked up a couple vehicles driving down the road.   “Someone just showed up at the next cabin over. I just want to take a look.”

 

“I’ll come with you.”

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

There’s a trail along the bluff that leads to the public-access beach about a mile away. The next cabin is about halfway between the SHIELD cabin and the beach. Though it isn’t so much a cabin - it’s more like a small ranch house with beat-up and faded light-green aluminum siding. It sits back from the bluff about seventy-five yards. When they get within range, Clint can see four men unloading gear from an old Chrysler, and from the back of a pick-up truck that’s got a fishing boat hitched up behind it. They’re all wearing some piece of hunters’ blaze-orange, either a camouflage coat, or hat and/or gloves. One of them is carrying fishing poles, two more have coolers. The fourth one looks up and sees them, and gives them a casual wave before grabbing a duffle bag out of the trunk of the car. Clint waves back and keeps them moving along the trail.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Bucky asks quietly.

 

Clint steals another quick, surreptitious glance toward the house. None of the men are looking their way and now he can see that there’s at least one more shadow inside the house. “Dunno.” Lake Superior is the largest fresh-water lake in the world, and it’s trout and salmon season so it wouldn’t be unusual for there to anglers here this time of year. It’s also late Friday afternoon, so a weekend fishing trip could be plausible. Still, it’s in Clint’s nature to be suspicious. “I don’t like the timing.”

 

“Why the fuck are they all wearing orange?” Bucky mutters while looking away from them out across the lake.

 

Clint smothers a laughs. “It’s hunting gear. Animals can’t tell the difference but it keeps them from shooting each other.”

 

Bucky grunts in acknowledged understanding.

 

By unspoken agreement, they keep walking until they get to the public parking lot which has steps down to a small, rocky beach. There are no cars, so they descend to the lake. The inlet is deep and narrow, the striations of the sedimentary stone glowing a striking amber-red in the light of the setting sun. It’s warmer down in the protected cove, out of the wind that whips across the high bluff, but there’s still a thin veneer of ice all along the edges of the shore.

 

The lake is calm and Bucky picks up a flatish rock. “I remember going up to a lake in the mountains with my uncle and aunt once when I was a kid. My uncle taught me to skip stones.” Bucky fingers the rock in his hand, then throws it. It skips three times before sinking.

 

Clint nods. “I think it’s a requirement for every kid to learn that at a lake,” he says with a half grin then takes off his gloves and picks up his own rock. He slices it sideways and it skips ten times before sinking.

 

Bucky grunts. “Show-off.”

 

Clint grins. “You gotta sling it more side-armed.”

 

Bucky gives it another try and this time the rock skips five times. It’s barely sunk before he’s casting around looking for more.

 

Clint picks up another and his fingers and thumb skate over the surface, taking in its contours and shape. He watches Bucky and a split second after he slings his rock, Clint throws his toward the bluff. Bucky’s rock skips five times again, and Clint’s ricochets off the stone wall and lands exactly in the middle of the ring of ripples created by the last skip of Bucky’s stone.

 

Bucky’s eyes go wide for a second, then he narrows them and picks up another rock. So does Clint. Bucky leans back a little and then flings the rock; Clint releases a split second later. Bucky’s rock skips eight times, and Clint’s once again lands in the center of the ripples.

 

Bucky snorts and throws another. This time, Clint’s rock ricochets twice before landing where Bucky’s rock dropped after its tenth and final skip.

 

“Okay, Barton, you win,” Bucky huffs, but his expression is fond.

 

Clint smirks and spreads his hands. “Just keeping things interesting.”

 

Bucky considers him for a moment. “How do you do it?”

 

Clint shakes his head. “No idea. It’s unconscious, mostly.”

 

“Do you have to practice?”

 

“Eh,” Clint answers, waggling his hand in a seesaw manner.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“If I don’t practice for a while, I might be off an inch or so, but never entirely.”

 

“Can you can do that with a gun?”

 

“I can do it with pretty much anything,” Clint admits.

 

“Then why use a bow?”

 

Bucky isn’t ambushing him with the question, Clint knows, he’s just curious. Still, Clint’s stomach lurches. He ignores the question as he turns and looks toward the steps back to the parking lot. “Let’s get going. It’s getting dark and I want to get another look at the guys in the house.” He flicks a quick glance at Bucky before making his way back the way they came. His expression clearly tells Clint that he didn’t miss how Clint side-stepped the question.  

 

Clint sets a pace to stay a few steps ahead of Bucky on the way back, but he slows as they pass the green house. It’s nearly dark and all Clint can see are shadows dimly visible behind the closed curtains.

 

There’s nothing overtly suspicious about the house or the fishermen, but Clint has a creeping discomfort with the timing of their arrival.    

 


	3. Reciprocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I anticipated or hoped. Sorry to those of you reading along - RL just doesn't always like to cooperate with my desire to write.
> 
> Thanks to Jackdaws45 and MillyVeil for taking a look at this chapter and giving valuable feedback!

 

“They talk about you. At Stark’s tower,” Bucky says apropos of nothing over dinner that night.

 

“Yeah?” Clint says with practiced disinterest, before shoving his fork into his mouth again.

 

“Yeah. Steve and Agent Coulson and Natasha. And sometimes Stark. They want you back with the Avenger Initiative but Fury told them they can’t have you yet.”

 

“It warms my heart to know I’m being discussed like an inanimate object.” He’s shooting for humor but is pretty sure some of the annoyance he feels bleeds through. “Any particular reason you’re telling me this?” he asks as he cuts into his chicken breast.

 

Bucky sits back and eyes him. “I get it now, is all. I didn’t before. But after your,” his hand flicks in an indeterminate gesture, “demonstration with the rocks, it makes sense.”

 

He knows what he can do is unusual, but people’s interest in it makes him uncomfortable, like he’s some sort of freak. He should never have opened that can of worms down by the water. “It wasn’t a demonstration. I was just messing around.”

 

“That’s what makes it even more impressive.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

“I know. But still, once Fury lets you go—”

 

“Look, Barnes,” Clint says wearily, setting down his silverware and rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger, “I’m not going to be an Avenger.”

 

“Whaddaya mean? You already fought with them—"

 

“I fought with them once,” he snaps, interrupting Bucky again, “and I came late to the battle because I was the one that started the damn thing. There may have been a time when I might have been considered, but that’s not gonna happen anymore. Besides, they don’t need me when they’ve got you in the picture now.” That last is said with stupid resentment and he regrets it immediately; it’s not like Bucky _asked_ for any of this to happen.

 

Bucky looks confused for a second and then his eyes go wide with stricken understanding. “I’m not… I don’t…”

 

“I know,” Clint sighs as Bucky shakes his head vigorously. “Look, I _know_ , okay? But things are what they are.” He shrugs.

 

“Clint…”

 

“Bucky, please,” Clint says, staring down at the remains of his dinner, feeling his face flush just a bit. “I can’t…” He closes his eyes. “I can deal with this just fine as long as people aren’t looking at me like—” he cuts himself off, not wanting to even say it. When he finally looks up, he sees Bucky’s expression hasn’t changed. “I made my bed and now I’m lying in it. It’s the way of the world. And not one single bit of it is your fault or your problem, so you don’t need to worry about it.” Clint’s fucked-up life situation is his own responsibility, after all, and he sure as hell doesn’t want Barnes taking on more baggage because of him.  

 

Clint holds the eye contact as long as he can and then picks up his silverware again. He cuts a piece of chicken and shoves it into his mouth, then focusses on cutting the next piece. He can tell that across from him, Bucky is still staring.

 

A moment later, Bucky finally breaks the silence. “What does SHIELD want you to do that you won’t?”

 

The question is too quiet, too gentle, and too completely on the mark, and when Clint looks up, the concern in Bucky’s eyes almost makes him wince. He feels laid bare and he shakes his head. “Just… leave it, okay? I told you, it doesn’t matter.” Clint forks the last of his food into his mouth and then stands and takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going to go check on our new neighbors.” Bucky thankfully doesn’t say anything else as Clint pulls on his cold-weather gear and leaves the cabin.

 

He hadn’t planned to come back out tonight since the wind-chill has the temperature down below zero. He’d _planned_ to sink into the couch or one of the chairs and watch whatever documentary Bucky had queued up next, while keeping one eye on the drone feed on his phone. That had been a good plan; a much better plan than freezing his ass off in the fucking woods of northern Wisconsin. Dammit.  

 

But Clint’s a sniper and it’s not long before he’s in his zone, fully focused on his target and all of the rest of it slipping away – the cold, the disappointment, Barnes’ uncomfortably prescient questions.

 

He stands behind a tree about 60 yards from the target property - far enough away that’s he’s not afraid of being seen in the dark, but with decent sightlines for him to see the lit-up house. The curtains are drawn and as the evening wears on, the movement he can see behind them slows down, making it unlikely that Clint will learn anything new. Still, he keeps his eyes sweeping the property for signs of anything unusual. With luck, they’ll all vacate to go fishing tomorrow so he can do some fishing of his own inside the house.

 

Eventually, his focus is interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn because he recognizes Bucky’s gait as he makes his way through dead leaves and grass – quietly, but loud enough that Clint can easily hear it. He blinks a few times and looks up at the stars, automatically seeking out Orion.   The constellation has moved in the night sky and is higher, brighter. A shiver wracks his body just as Bucky steps up next to him.

 

“Here,” Bucky says, pushing something toward his hand.

 

Clint blinks his gaze down to see a thermal travel mug on offer – a peace offering, then. Clint will take it. “Thanks,” he says, wrapping his stiff fingers around it. He takes a sip, not even bothering to wonder what it is. It’s going to be hot, and that’s all Clint cares about. The liquid stuns his mouth, but it’s just on the right side of too hot. Some kind of spicy orange tea.

 

“I wasn’t sure what you like.”

 

“I’m not picky. This is good. Thanks.”

 

“Anything?” Bucky asks, staring at the house himself.

 

“Nah. I can only make out shadows behind the curtains. Pretty sure they’re all in there.”

 

Bucky’s hands are tucked in his pockets but he leans in and nudges Clint with his shoulder. “Why don’t you come inside, too. You’ve been out here nearly three hours, you must be freezing.”

 

Had it been that long? He turns to look at Bucky. He looks worried and Clint huffs. “I’m fine. But, yeah, a hot shower sounds good right about now.”

 

Bucky smiles – seemingly in relief - nods and turns to leave.  Clint follows behind, periodically taking sips from the mug and letting the warmth spread through him.

 

Tea only goes so far though, and by the time they make it the half-mile through the woods back to their cabin, Clint is feeling every minute of the three hours he spent in the frigid temperatures. He grabs his grey flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt and hits the shower, staying under the hot stream until it starts to fade to warm. When he walks back into the main room, pruney and content, Bucky’s got a fire roaring in the fireplace. Clint quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Thought it might help you warm up.” Bucky shrugs, but Clint can see his face pink up slightly.

 

Clint’s plenty warm, but he appreciates the gesture; it reminds him a bit of how Coulson used to take care of him. God, he misses Coulson. “Thanks,” he says, then, “What’s in the queue for tonight?”

 

Bucky flashes the small smile that Clint’s becoming more and more familiar with, and starts fiddling with his laptop. “The Cuban Missile Crisis? Watched one on JFK while you were outside and it got me curious.”

 

Clint nods and takes a seat in the chair closest to the fireplace, finally getting to melt into its comfort.         

 

Clint knew about the 1962 stand-off before, but the documentary reminds him of a lot of the details he’d forgotten. When it’s over, Clint glances over to Bucky to see if he’s thinking about watching another or if he’s had enough for the evening since it’s getting late. But he’s just staring blankly at the credits as they roll.

 

“You okay?”

 

Bucky’s brows knit together. “Pretty sure I was there.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Cuba. In ‘62.”

 

Clint’s brain stutters at that, but after a beat he asks, “Are you kidding?”

 

“No.” Bucky shakes his head slowly, looking thoughtful.

 

Clint swallows hard. “What were you doing?”

 

Bucky finally turns to look at Clint but his expression is clouded, like he’s still putting things together in his head. “I remember being outside with a sniper rifle, watching the U.S. military base there. Pretty sure I was supposed to shoot anyone who tried to sneak through the fence.”

 

“Holy shit,” Clint says quietly.

 

Bucky blinks several times and his face clears a little before it morphs to guilt. “I don’t think I did, though. Shoot anyone, I mean. Not that time.”

 

Clint’s pretty sure he didn’t, too, since that would have probably caused a major international incident that just might have sparked a nuclear war. Clint shivers, despite being more than warm with the fire crackling beside him. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

 

Bucky’s small laugh in response is humorless. “Yeah. I’m good.” He sits up and shuts down his laptop. “Guess I’ll turn in.”

 

He does seem mostly fine, so Clint lets it go. But he’s not particularly surprised when he awakens to small sounds of distress a few hours later and he looks over to see Bucky shifting restlessly in his bed. Clint watches and waits, trying to decide if the kindness of waking him from the nightmare is worth the embarrassment it will likely cause him. He’s been there enough times to know there’s a fine line between those things. In the end, Bucky settles on his own and eventually Clint drifts back into his own nighttime torment.

 

****

 

The next morning, Clint’s up and out of the house at daybreak, back at his spot where he can watch the green house. An hour later, the same four men he saw the day before leave the house and climb into the pick-up truck hauling the boat and pull away with it. He assumes they’re headed for the public boat launch to the east. He waits another half hour and then curses when it looks like the last occupant isn’t going anywhere. He grunts in frustration; he still hasn’t gotten a look at the fifth person.

 

He makes his way back past their own cabin and along the bluff path where, sure enough, a quarter-mile past their cabin, he can see the boat, launched and making its way out onto the lake. Their blaze-orange gear makes them easy to spot. They stop a couple-hundred yards from shore and Clint quickly turns and looks for a better vantage point. He spots a maple tree with good sight lines and scales it easily, finding a reasonably comfortable perch about mid-way up in the V of two fat branches where he can lean against the trunk. He taps his comm and tells Bucky where he is and asks him to make sure one of the drones stays focused on the house in case #5 shows themselves. Then he pulls out a small pair of binoculars to get a closer look and settles in to watch. They look like typical fisherman. Their movements are a little stiff and stilted, but that could be explained by the fact that the temperature is hovering around zero. Or it could be because they’re not really fishermen at all. He watches, not taking his eyes off them until they kick the motor on and putter back toward the boat ramp.

 

When they finally disappear from view, Clint’s focus widens and his body relaxes. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, leveling himself out. After a minute, he opens his eyes and shakes his arms out, then looks at his watch. He’s been sitting in the tree for nearly four hours, and not surprisingly, the cold has crept deep into his bones. He radios Bucky with the status and to let him know he’ll be back soon; Bucky tells him he’ll start getting some lunch together.

 

He drops down from his perch and starts to trot, getting his blood moving and loosen up his stiff limbs, trying to generate some heat in his body. Before going to the cabin, he makes a quick loop back to the green house, hoping #5 will show himself when the others arrive. He doesn’t. Clint huffs to himself. He’s probably just being paranoid, but all his years at SHIELD have taught him that there’s very rarely such thing as a coincidence. At least not in their line of work. It could be the men in the house are just fishermen. But it could be they’re the land-based team for the gun smugglers. Clint still doesn’t think it makes sense for them to use this route, but it’s his job to pay attention and check all possibilities, regardless.

 

Once the men have unloaded their gear and ensconced themselves in the house again, Clint figures there’s not going to be much to see for a while so he makes his way back to their cabin. He’s happier than he’d like to admit when he sees that there’s another fire crackling in the fireplace.

 

Clint’s pleasure only lasts a second though because as he’s taking off his coat, he realizes it’s too quiet. He stops, eyes quickly scanning the open room. In the kitchen, there are vegetables on a cutting board and scattered on the floor. There’s blood on a knife lying on the counter.

 

“Bucky?” Clint calls out casually, sliding the Glock from his belt holster. He hears a small sound from the tech room, and approaches cautiously, taking a quick peak around the corner. Bucky is sitting on the floor, leaning against the far wall with one leg straight out in front of him, the other bent at the knee and tilted to the side. His breathing is heavier than it should be.

 

“Hey,” Clint says, stepping forward but staying just outside of the doorway, keeping his distance until he knows what the situation is. He tucks the gun away.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Everything okay?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Clint’s eyes make a quick sweep of the room, then land back on Bucky. His expression is pure miserable. “So, uh, what’re you doing in here?”

 

Bucky sighs and after a brief moment holds his right hand up for Clint to see. There’s a bloody paper towel wrapped around his index finger. “The blood…” He blinks his gaze away from Clint. “I may have… reacted badly.”

 

Clint finally steps into the room and slides down the wall to sit near Bucky. “You okay now?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs. “Sorry.” He closes his eyes.

 

“Look, this kind of thing… it can happen to anyone.”

 

Bucky snorts bitterly. “Yeah? Happens to you a lot, does it?” he asks, the words coming out sharply. It’s more emotion than he’s heard from Barnes since he met the man, and Clint senses that he's getting a glimpse of what’s beneath those still waters for the first time.

 

Clint hesitates, unsure whether he wants to let the conversation go where it’s headed. In the end, the unbalanced expression that Bucky’s wearing makes the decision for him. “This week? Only twice so far.”

 

Bucky finally opens his eyes at that, jerking his head around to look at Clint in surprise. “What?”

 

Clint turns his gaze away, unable to look at Bucky as he admits, “I get… It’s like, for a split-second, I’m there again, and I’m looking down my arrows at the faces of the people I killed. It makes me nauseous.” He swallows a couple times because just saying it makes the words feel like they’re going to come back up his throat. He flicks an uneasy glance at Bucky, who is still staring at him, searching his face for… something. Clint doesn’t know what.  

 

“Is that why you don’t use your bow anymore?” Bucky asks eventually.

 

“No,” Clint says automatically, defensively. After a beat he opens his mouth again. “Yes. I don’t know. It’s not the flashes. I can… I can handle those. It’s that when I pick up my bow my hand shakes so fucking bad that I couldn’t hit a target if my life depended on it,” he says tiredly. “And then I puke,” he adds as an afterthought. “Just thinking about it makes me sick half the time.”    

 

Understanding dawns on Bucky’s face. “SHIELD wants you to use your bow,” he says slowly, working through the thought as he speaks.

 

Clint nods grimly.

 

“And you haven’t told them,” Bucky adds perceptively, not posing it as a question.

 

Clint shakes his head. He sighs and then admits, “If they think I don’t use my bow because I _won’t_ , that’s one thing – I’m just a stubborn bastard. But if I don’t use it because I _can’t_ , then I’m a head case and of no use to them. They’ll bounce me to the curb in a second flat.”

 

“Maybe SHIELD’s not the best place for you, then.”

 

Clint sighs. “Bucky, I’ve got a very narrow skillset. It’s not like there are a lot of jobs out there for former circus performers who also happen to be really good at killing people.”

    

“What about the Avengers? I told you, they want you—”

 

“And I told you, that’s off the table. I’ve been benched since New York. Do you really think they’re going to add me to their elite team? Nat’s gone, Coulson’s gone. Fury and SHIELD are all I’ve got left unless I want to go independent. But I’ve been there and done that and I do not fucking want to be that person again.”

 

Bucky nods slowly, staring off at nothing. “I don’t really remember being the Winter Soldier. I mean, I _remember_ things I did while I was him - the actions - but it’s all… fragmented, non-linear. But what I _do_ remember clearly is coming back to myself and there’d be blood.” He turns his palms up and stares at them. “I’d have blood on my hands, sometimes on my clothes or… everywhere.” He shakes his head a little. “I don’t ever want to be that person again, either.” He sighs and tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Stevie tells me I’m doing okay, but I’m not sure I’ll ever really be right again.”

 

Clint is still for a minute before he swallows hard, then takes a deep breath. “With Loki, it was… like he shoved me over into the passenger’s seat and took control of my head. I was still in there, yelling and trying to push him out, but I couldn’t. He got so deep in my head that he got at every bit of information about SHIELD and the people I care about and used it against them. And then he put my bow in my hand and he made me fucking _smile_ when I blew open the helicarrier with it. There were people dead, dying, all over the ship and I smiled and stepped over them.” Clint takes another deep breath and it comes out shaky on the exhale. “When I get the flashes, I’m always… I’m always fucking _smiling_.”

 

Bucky lifts his head and stares at him. “Are you okay?” he asks, gently.

 

“Actually, I think I might puke.”

 

Bucky snorts a little. “Two fucked-up, brainwashed snipers. What are the odds that us being put in here together was a coincidence?”

 

Clint starts to replay his conversation with Fury in his mind. The man is a complete and utter bastard.  “Very low.”

 

“You think this is all a set up?”

 

“Maybe. Mostly. I think there are gun runners out there somewhere because I don’t think Coulson would lie to me that way. But I suspect Fury put us here hoping I’d get you to open up.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Like I said, I’m off the slate for the Avengers. They’re gonna need someone with the same skillset to fill the hole. Probably want to make sure you’re not going to snap and kill anyone.”

 

“Are you sure this isn’t about you?”

 

Clint huffs. “What the hell would they want with a broken archer if they have a not-broken super soldier to take his place?”

 

Bucky waves him off. “You’re not really broken. I mean, you just puke sometimes,” he shrugs, “that’s not so bad.” A second later, Bucky seems to realize what he said and his lips quirk up a little; some of the life has returned to his eyes.

 

Clint finds himself trying to suppress his own smile, glad to see Bucky back from whatever brink he was on. “Nice. Thanks, man. I’m glad my pain can be a source of pleasure for you. Are you into BDSM, too?” Clint shifts forward and then rises to his feet.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky says around a small laugh. Clint hums noncommittally as he sticks his hand out for Bucky to clasp, then hauls him to his feet. Bucky is still grinning when he asks, “What’s BDSM?” He sounds genuinely curious.

 

Clint starts toward the door. “Google it,” he says over his shoulder, his own smile growing at the thought of Bucky’s face if he actually does.  "Make sure you click on 'images'."

 

*

 

A couple hours later, they’re finally eating the stew Bucky made for lunch and Bucky’s hair keeps falling in his face as he bends over his bowl. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he tucks it behind an ear, some stray piece always seems to break forward and get in his way. Its not the first meal when its happened.

 

After the third time that Bucky grunts in frustration and pushes his hair back his ear, Clint says, “Maybe you should just cut your hair.”  
 

Bucky sits all the way upright. “Why?”

 

“Well, first off, so it won’t be falling in your face when you try to eat.” Clint shrugs. “But, I dunno. It seems like maybe it would separate you from the Winter Soldier.”

 

“Yeah? You think that’ll do it? I cut my hair and all the bad shit I did will just… go away?” His words sound light, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that Clint’s not seen before.

 

“Well, no…” Clint furrow his brow. “I just mean that maybe it’s a reminder you don’t need.”

 

“Is that why you don’t use your bow? ‘Cause you hope you can forget if you don’t?”

 

Clint doesn’t respond, stalled into silence by the question.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky shakes his head and looks at Clint apologetically. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t ever want to forget what I did. The people I killed don’t deserve that.”

 

Clint sure as hell doesn’t need his bow in his hand to remember the people he killed, and he doubts cutting his hair will make Bucky forget either. But everyone has their own coping mechanisms, and that attitude actually seems surprisingly… healthy. “Sure, I get it. Sorry. Do what you gotta do, Buck.”

 

They both go back to focusing on their food but a moment later, Bucky lifts his head and looks at him thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what. You start using your bow again and I’ll find myself a barber.” Clint scowls without much intent and Bucky grins a little and sighs. “Or, how ‘bout we both just keep working on it?”

 

“Sure,” Clint answers with a veneer of a smile.

 

****

 

Clint and Bucky spend Sunday alternating watching the men fish some more. It’s boring and cold and every minute he’s outside freezing, Clint is reminded of just what SHIELD thinks of him these days. He finds himself vacillating between hoping these morons turn out to be part of the gun-running ring so he can flip SHIELD the metaphorical finger, and hoping that they’ll just go away quietly so he can stay inside. He wants to tell himself that it’s so he can linger by the warmth of the fire, but he’s self-actualized enough to acknowledge that what he’d really like is to be inside with Bucky.  

 

The northern lights are spectacular that night, and as usual, Bucky calls Clint out to watch. Clint stays until just after it hits its zenith and then leaves to go inside where it’s warm. He’s already spent the better part of two days outside in sub-freezing temperatures and he’s had enough. He’s feeling it in his bones and he’s getting too old for this shit. When he walks in the door, the warmth of the cabin feels so good, he groans with the pleasure of it. He spends a few minutes in front of the fireplace before grabbing clothes from the loft and heading to the bathroom.

 

The hot shower feels even better and he lingers longer than he means to, hands against the wall, letting the heat soak into his shoulders and loosen muscles that are rigid from cold and from a day of being still for hours at a time.

 

He towels off and slips into the grey flannel sleep pants he brought down with him, then slides his comm back into his ear. He’s not expecting the rustling sound and then the grunt. He taps it with his finger. “Bucky?” There’s a squeak of feedback for a second and then the unit goes silent.

 

“Bucky?” he says again. When he doesn’t get a response, he opens the bathroom cabinet and grabs the Glock from where he left it on the shelf and carefully opens the door. The room is quiet and nothing seems amiss, but as his eyes sweep across the space, he catches sight of a dark reflection in the television; there’s someone in the loft, and given the balaclava they’re wearing, it’s definitely not Bucky. Clint doesn’t even hesitate – he darts forward and springs over the couch into a forward roll just to the side of the coffee table, and in one fluid motion he’s up again, firing toward the intruder. He’s heard Clint coming so he’s on the move and Clint only clips him, but he drops his HK-416 over the railing and it clatters as it lands below; the intruder yells as he falls to the floor up above.

 

But Clint has fucked-up and missed the other intruder, and an instant later, all his muscles lock and he falls over, body convulsing from a few hundred thousand volts of electricity. He’d be cursing a blue streak if he could get his mouth to work, but the signals from his brain are overwhelmed. A second later, a heavy boot kicks the Glock from his frozen hand and the last thing Clint sees is a rifle butt jabbing toward his head.

 

… _Shit_.

 

*

 

When consciousness returns, Clint hears angry voices, but they’re far enough away and muffled so he isn’t immediately worried. He takes stock. His head is killing him. He can’t muster the desire to open his eyes, but he’s pretty sure his face is lying in a puddle of blood, based on the damp and the smell. He’s also freezing since he’s still only in the sleep pants he had just put on. He’s lying on his stomach - on what feels like cold concrete - and his hands are bound behind him. He hates it when he wakes up bound.

 

When Clint was a kid, he lost his hearing for a little while, so Barney stole a book and they learned some ASL. Mostly they just memorized how to form the individual letters and would sign swear words at each other. Thankfully, his hearing had come back, but at SHIELD, he and Nat and Coulson had learned more and used it to communicate nonverbally when necessary. It’s his early signing education that comes to him now as he tests to see what kind of shape his hands are in, because they (and his eyes) are always his first priority. _M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R-S_ , he spells out, first with one hand, then the other, testing his finger dexterity. He may be also editorializing a bit, but who would blame him.

 

Behind him, he hears a small snort that sounds dispiritingly familiar, and when he lifts his head and gingerly turns it the other direction, he sees Bucky. He’s also bound with his hands behind his back, but he’s sitting up. He’s got a good number of fading bruises on his face and a small line of dried blood running from his nose, down his chin and onto his shirt. Other than that, Clint can’t see any more injuries.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Bucky nods and shifts to show Clint how his arms are bound together behind his back in a single metal sleeve that extends from the first knuckles on his fingers, up above his elbows. It looks secure, but Clint is still surprised he hasn’t been able to get out of them. As though reading his mind, Bucky says, “They zapped my arm with something. It’s completely dead. I can’t get enough leverage to break these things.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

 

Clint rolls onto his side, bends his knees and then rolls again, groaning a little as he goes. He ends sitting up, legs crossed in front of him.  

 

“How’s your head?” Bucky asks, concern writ all over his face.

 

The blow from the rifle had tagged Clint at his left orbital socket. He can see a lot of blood on his shoulder and smeared down his chest from where it bled profusely. “I’ll live.” He blinks several times, trying to clear the blood from his vision, but his eye is swollen almost shut so it doesn’t help much. “Any idea how long we’ve been here?”

 

“Not long. I don’t think we were supposed to be here at all, but things didn’t go exactly as planned and they’re taking care of the guy you clipped. I think you pissed them off.”

 

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” Clint grunts, testing the strength of the plastic zip-ties that are biting into his wrists. Compared to Bucky’s, Clint’s restraints are child’s play. He always appreciates it when people underestimate him. He has every intention of making that a fatal mistake on their captors’ part. “Where are we?”

 

“The green house, in the basement.”

 

Clint sighs. “I knew those fuckers weren’t fishermen. Any idea who they are?”

 

“Pretty sure they’re HYDRA,” Bucky says, his face a grim mask.

 

Clint nods. It’s what he assumed as well as soon as he saw the balaclavas they were wearing in the cabin. There are still small cells of the organization out there trying to re-form, and SHIELD’s been working on mopping them up, a few at a time. It’s highly disturbing that they knew where to find Bucky because that means they’ve still got someone inside SHIELD. It’s equally disturbing that they didn’t kill Clint outright in the cabin because the only reason he can think of that they wouldn’t, is because they intend to make a brainwashed soldier out Clint, too. He’s tried that brainwashing thing. He wasn’t a fan.

 

“I’m not gonna go quietly,” Bucky says, matter-of-factly. “I’d rather have them kill me than to go back to killing people for them.”

 

Good, they’re on the same page, then. Clint opens his mouth to tell Bucky to wait until they get outside, when door at the top of the stairs opens and five men descend. Four of them are holding HK-416s; the fifth has Clint’s Glock in his right hand and his left arm is bound in bloody bandages and held tight to his chest in a makeshift sling. He’s apparently not in a forgiving mood, because as the others train their rifles on Bucky, he steps over to Clint and kicks him hard in the side.

 

Clint falls onto his other side, gasping and coughing, then cranes his neck and grins up at the asshole. “Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?” he manages, flashing a grin he knows must be bloody.

 

The guy kicks again, this time catching him in the ribs. Clint’s knees bend reflexively, curling himself into a protective ball. He presses his face into the cold floor beneath him and tries to breathe through the pain, hoping to push back the creeping darkness that threatens.

 

When one of the others steps up to him and pulls off the balaclava, Clint does manage to push out a few prime curse words.

 

“Nice to see you, too, Hawkeye.”

 

When the SHIELD/HYDRA shit hit the fan, Sitwell had disappeared and Phil had been unable to believe the friend and colleague that he had trusted for so many years was a traitor. Clint knew Phil had spent a lot of time those first few weeks searching for him on the off chance that he’d just been hung out all alone in the chaos. When the truth of the situation became indisputable, Phil had been devastated.

 

“You’re such a _prick_ , Jasper _,”_ Clint wheezes, still trying to even out his breathing.

 

Sitwell grins as he grabs Clint’s hair in a vicious grip, making his eyes water as he pulls him upright to sitting again. The following punch to the face is not a surprise. “That’s for shooting my guy.” He yanks his arm back and punches again, letting go just as he does so that Clint is thrown sideways, back onto the floor. “And that’s for making this all more complicated than it was supposed to be.” Clint’s lip split this time so his mouth is flooded with blood and it drools out onto the concrete below him. His head is spinning and his vision is greying out at the edges, and his jaw and mouth hurt like a sonofabitch, but he ignores it in favor of spitting a glob of blood and saliva toward Sitwell’s boots. It’s very rewarding when it lands on the laces, where it will soak in and not be easily wiped away. Sitwell glances down before grabbing Clint’s hair in one hand and wrenching hard on one of his arms with the other, pulling Clint to his feet.   “And this,” he keeps pulling up on Clint’s arms painfully, forcing him to bend over, then knees him in the solar plexus, taking Clint’s breath away, “is just because I don’t like you.”

 

Clint’s legs give way for a second, but Sitwell’s grip on his hair is ferocious and it keeps him upright long enough for Sitwell to pull his knee back again and slam a second vicious kick into Clint’s side, and then follows that immediately with a knee to the face. Clint goes flying backward, landing hard on his back and shoulders and skidding across the rough concrete. His breath is fully knocked out of him and rolls slightly, trying to get on his side to relieve the pressure on his shoulders and give more room for his lungs to expand. He somehow manages to roll a little, but he’s still left gasping and struggling to breathe, vision narrowing dangerously. Distantly, he can hear Bucky yelling and Clint _wills_ his body to relax enough that he can suck air into his lungs.

 

“And here I thought we had an epic bromance going,” he rasps, relief rushing through him that he can speak at all.  

 

Sitwell ignores him as he turns to the other men. “Time to go. And for Christ’s sake, put some more fucking zip ties on him. I told you he’s more dangerous than he looks.”

 

Bucky scrambles to his feet and sets himself in a fighting stance, ready to fight despite the fact that he’s hobbled without the use of his arms. Clint’s pretty messed up and his focus is on Bucky, so at first he doesn’t notice the two who have moved beside him. But when Bucky’s eyes go wide and panicky, Clint tips his head in time to see them reach down to grab his arms.

 

“Wait, wait!” Bucky yells, and surprisingly, everyone stops. “Look, I’ll go with you. I won’t fight. Just… leave _him_.” His head tips slightly in Clint’s direction.

 

A jolly grin spreads across Sitwell’s face. “It’s so cute that you think we care if you fight or not,” he says, then casually lifts his assault rifle and shoots Bucky in the leg. He goes down with a shout and as soon as he does, one of the others steps up and smashes Bucky in the face with his rifle butt. Bucky looks like he’s barely conscious when two of the HYDRA pricks each grab one of his arms and drag him toward the stairs.

 

Sitwell crouches down next to Clint and grabs his hair again, yanking his head backward far enough that breathing gets difficult. Worse, he can’t see Bucky anymore. Sitwell is still wearing a sinister grin when he says, “You were so beautifully compliant for Loki. I can’t wait to see you once we get you in our chair.” He pats Clint’s cheek a couple of times, and then, with a moue of disgust, wipes his bloody hand on Clint’s pajama pants, and stands.

 

He jerks his head at Pistol Guy. “Get up!” Pistol Guy yells, gesturing at Clint with Clint’s own fucking gun.

 

Normally he wouldn’t be quick to respond when assholes like this are giving the orders, but he’s more concerned about getting eyes back on Bucky than anything else, so he moves as quickly as he’s able. He shifts, bending his knees and then rolls onto them. From there, he uses some of his circus finesse and a lot of pure muscle strength to push himself to his feet. He’s instantly dizzy and has to take a second to steady himself. He nearly falls on his face when the asshole shoves him toward the stairs.

 

Sitwell goes first, followed by Pistol Guy, who clambers up to the top ahead of him to turn and point the gun from above. The last foot soldier stays safely at the bottom of the stairs with his rifle trained on Clint, waiting until Clint’s is all the way up before he ascends himself. At the top, once they’re out of the basement, Clint is hit by an overwhelming smell of gasoline and he gags. He’s almost relieved to be pushed out the front door into the frigid December air.

 

The rear hatch of a newly-arrived SUV is up and Clint can see that there’s one more guy in black, and he and one of the others are securing Bucky to something in the back. It looks like Bucky is just starting to come back to himself because he starts shifting around and pulling his arms weakly. He blinks several times and looks around, and then his eyes connect with Clint’s. He looks wrecked. Clint’s going to have to talk to Coulson about working with the guy on his game face, because wearing that kind of emotion in this kind of situation is not the best way to play things.

 

Pistol Guy and one of the others climb into the back seat and New Guy gets into the front passenger seat. Sitwell smiles smugly at Bucky and then slams the rear hatch and walks around to the driver’s door. “Burn it,” he directs the remaining two. “And be quick about it. We’ll meet you at the extraction point.”  He slides into the front seat and turns the engine over.

 

They push Clint up against the side of the beat-up pick-up. It’s still got the boat hitched to it, so Clint assumes they’ll be leaving in the old Chrysler which is parked alongside. One of the two remaining HYDRA agents is splashing gasoline around the front of the house. The guy closest to him opens a box of gear in the back of the pick-up and pulls out a handful of zip ties. He lowers his rifle and shifts it behind his back. A fatal fucking mistake, and one that Clint plans to take advantage of. He steps closer to Clint just as Gas Guy pulls out a flare and cracks it open, illuminating the night in a red glow.   When Zip Tie Guy’s eyes reflexively dart toward the light, Clint doesn’t hesitate: he jumps, pulling both knees high, and smoothly slips his bound hands around to the front of his body.

 

Zip Tie Guy registers his movement and quickly turns back, eyes going wide in realization before Clint wraps his bound arms around the guys neck and snaps it in one efficient move. Clint grimaces as they both fall to the ground and he’s trying to disentangle himself - and the gun from the guy’s body - when the Gas Guy finally clues into what’s happening and yells, the red glow mostly disappearing as he drops the flare in favor of reaching for his gun.

 

Clint has to give up on getting custody of the dead guy’s assault rifle in order to leap up and over the pick-up to avoid the spray of bullets from Gas Guy. He’s firing wildly and the bullets ping and spark across the chassis and break all the windows out, raining glass down onto Clint’s head. He looks up from where he’s wrapped his arms protectively around his head to see that the SUV’s taillights are still moving away down the road, not stopping despite the gunshots. Clint knows he doesn’t have much time; he’s got to stop Sitwell from making it to the highway and disappearing with Bucky.

 

He waits until Gas Guy has to stop to switch his mag before he makes his move, pushing away from the pick-up and diving for the woods about ten yards away. It’s only a second before bullets are peppering the ground around him but he keeps running, even as he feels a searing lance of pain in his side and the back of his arm. Seconds later, as he’s crashing through the dark forest, he hears the Chrysler roar to life and tear down the drive after the SUV.

 

Clint sprints full out, moving as a crow flies instead of taking the bluff path or the road. Those would be easier options for the running part of this whole load of shit, but he needs the most direct route to their own cabin. As he runs, he lifts his arms up high in front of himself and then viciously swings his elbows back as fast and as hard as he can. As his wrists hit his chest, the corresponding pain in both spots is incredible, but the zip ties snap and that’s all that matters because it means he can run faster.

 

He’s barefoot and only wearing thin flannel sleep-pants, and it’s got to have dipped below zero by now. As he runs, he feels his feet being torn up against the frozen forest floor; feels the branches slapping at him and sometimes gouging into him; feels the bark of the trees scraping him as he ricochets off them. He ignores it all because the only thing that matters is getting Bucky away from HYDRA, at all costs.

 

Clint surges forward when the cabin finally comes into view – looking practically cheery with the warm glow from the windows penetrating the frigid dark. He bursts through the door and stumbles to the tech room, slapping his hand in the vicinity of the lock. As soon as the door hisses open, he’s shoving through it and then jabbing his thumb against the second bio-lock. When it clicks open, Clint doesn’t hesitate - he doesn’t even think about it - he reaches for the one weapon that he knows better than any other, the one that made him who he is. He reaches for the bow and grabs a handful of arrows.

 

Seconds later, he’s back outside, running down the long drive that meets the road that connects to the state highway. Through the trees, he can see the SUV approaching, headlights bouncing as the rig hits the many holes in the dirt road. _Fuck_. He’d hoped they would be moving slower. He wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but somehow he manages to make his legs move faster and he closes on the rig from an oblique angle. It’s a tricky shot that will be from behind and to the side, but Clint doesn’t have room for doubt in his head. He’s 30 yards out as the SUV barrels past the drive. Still running, he nocks two arrows and fires. A split-second later, two more arrows are away. The vehicle careens sharply sideways, veers off the road and into a tree. The engine sputters and dies.  

 

Clint’s got another arrow nocked and drawn as he continues sprinting toward the road. When he gets there, he slows and makes a wide arc around the rig, checking for live threats. There are none; all four HYDRA pricks have arrows through their heads or necks. He stops and drops his arms – keeping the arrow nocked – trying to catch his breath before the other car shows. He only gets a couple moments before he hears it. A few short seconds later he sees the headlights. He stands where he is but raises his bow again, his chest heaving as he waits. The instant the Chrysler gets into range, he looses his arrow and dispatches the last HYDRA agent. The car crashes into its own tree, rendering the night suddenly completely quiet except for the sound of Clint’s own harsh breathing.  

 

He drags in a half-dozen ragged breaths before turning back to the SUV.   “Bucky?” he yells, panic rising because he can’t see or hear the other man. “Bucky!”

 

Bucky grunts from the back of the truck. “Yeah.”

 

Clint quickly lifts the rear hatch and his eyes go wide when he sees blood coating Bucky’s face. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah. Just hit my head in all the bouncing around,” Bucky answers, his hair falling in his face so Clint can barely see him.

 

Clint feels around until he’s able to figure out how to release Bucky’s bound arms from where they’re connected to the floor of the rig, then helps Bucky sit up. “The one you called Jasper has the release,” Bucky tells him. “It’s a little electronic mechanism.”

 

Clint slings the bow over his shoulder and hurries to the driver’s door. Sitwell slumps out a little when he opens it, but Clint catches him. He doesn’t give the arrow sticking out of Sitwell’s skull a second glance as he digs through man's pockets until he finds what he’s looking for. By the time he returns, Bucky’s climbed out of the truck and is leaning against the back, most of his weight on the leg without the bullet in it.

 

“Nice shooting,” he says, twisting his body so Clint can get at the lock.

 

Clint doesn’t answer, because he’s maybe not quite ready to think about what he just did and what he did it with. Instead he concentrates on keeping his hand steady as he puzzles out how to open the cuffs. He slides the ‘key’ along the seam, and he has no idea what he does, but the lock suddenly clicks and the bindings fall away. Bucky lets out a deep sigh and rolls his right shoulder as he turns around.

 

“Arm still dead?” Clint asks. He’s panting yet, but he can feel his pulse slowing to a more normal rate.

 

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” He pushes the hair from his face and then Clint sees his eyes widen as he fully takes Clint in. “Jesus, are you okay?”

 

There’s alarm in his voice that seems unnecessary for a second, and then maybe not so unnecessary because Clint’s knees buckle and he starts to fall. Before he can hit the ground, though, Bucky has caught him with his flesh arm.

 

Bucky’s eyes are flicking over him as he works to hold him steady. “Clint, are you _shot?_ ” he asks, gaping down at Clint’s abdomen and turning to look at his back as he struggles to keeps Clint on his feet.

 

Clint looks down at himself and sees a lot of blood. “I don't know, am I?” His knees start to buckle again, but Bucky’s still holding on.

 

“Come on. We gotta move.” Bucky starts more or less dragging him back the way Clint had come.

 

“No, no, Buck, we gotta get outta here.” Clint’s words are slurring now, and his head feels loose and airy.

 

“We will. But we aren’t walking outta here and that rig’s dead. We gotta go get our truck.”

 

They move awkwardly, Clint stumbling and dragging his feet now that his adrenaline rush has subsided, and Bucky doing his best to carry him along with only one working arm and limping from a bullet in his leg. Clint’s suddenly very cold and his body starts to shiver convulsively.

 

“Hang on, Clint. We’re almost there.”

 

He knows Bucky is talking, a nonstop ramble meant to encourage him, but the words seem disembodied. He grunts, telling Bucky he understands, even though he doesn’t, really. Far away, Bucky yells “Whoa!” as Clint’s legs give out again. With his own limitations, Bucky can’t keep him upright this time, but he does his best to minimize the damage, putting as much of himself as he can between Clint and the frozen ground. Clint ends up on his back, blinking at the night sky. Orion comes into view and he automatically smiles. Then everything goes black.    


	4. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I had to do a very minor retcon near the end of the last chapter for continuity's sake (one of the perils of writing and posting a WIP). Honestly, I think most readers won't remember/notice, but if something seems slightly off to you, that's why, and you could just reread the last part of the last scene of the previous chapter for clarification.
> 
> Thanks sooo much to my lovely betas, Jackdaws45 and MillyVeil, both of whom helped this chapter tremendously.

 

A small groan escapes Clint as he wakes to being jostled into their SUV. The moment Bucky settles him into the passenger seat, he groans again, this time in relief, because, _seat warmers_. Clint has never fully appreciated the vehicle add-on until this very moment.

 

“Hang on,” Bucky tells him and then grabs a comforter Clint recognizes as being from one of the beds from the back seat, and wraps it around Clint’s bare feet. He catches a glimpse of a lot of blood and very-makeshift dressings on his side and his arm, before a second comforter is draped over his body, from neck to foot.

 

As Bucky tucks the blanket tight around him, Clint glances over his shoulder and sees a few weapons and what looks like a very random collection of their gear thrown haphazardly in the back of the rig. His entire body throbs and he’s so stiff with cold that he can barely move his finger to try to clutch the blanket closer. His teeth clatter uncontrollably. God, sometimes he really wishes he had some of that super-soldier serum in his blood. Like right now. Now would be an excellent time for that.

 

“You’re okay,” Bucky says as he struggles to stretch the seatbelt around Clint's now-bulky torso, but Clint isn't sure who he’s trying to convince.

 

Clint tries to focus and piece together what happened to him. He was zapped by a taser, he knows that. And his left eye is swollen shut; he remembers the rifle butt slamming into him. And of course, Sitwell’s and Pistol Guy’s shows of affection no doubt left some sizeable bruises. Assholes. He remembers running and not feeling nearly as cold as he does now. The rest is kind of a blur though, and he’s not sure why there’s so much blood.  

 

“Hey, did I get shot?” he mumbles.

 

Bucky hand jerks where he’s still trying to get the seatbelt connected one-handed, and his eyes flash. “Yeah. I don’t think either wound is too bad though.”

 

“I got shot _twice?_ ”  

 

Bucky huffs and the seatbelt finally clicks into place.  He slams Clint’s door and races around to the driver’s side, hopping in, closing the door, and throwing the rig in gear in one motion.

 

The drive out is as bumpy and uneven as the drive in, and Clint can tell Bucky’s torn between going slow, and flooring it, because he keeps shooting worried glances at Clint every time they hit a bump. He feels every last juddering of the car down to his bones, but he holds back the grimaces the best he can.

 

They get to the end of the drive to the cabin and Bucky starts to maneuver around the black SUV with the four dead HYDRA agents in it. Clint stares in a daze, thinking about Sitwell, and how he’s going to have to tell Phil that Clint killed him, and isn’t that just the fucking cherry on the top of this whole mess.  They’re just about past the rig when Clint’s sluggish brain finally kicks into low gear. “ _Stop,_ _stop!_ ”

 

Bucky does, breaking hard and Clint yelps as momentum throws him forward only to be jerked to a stop by the seatbelt.

 

“What?” Bucky asks, eyes startled and wide. “What’s wrong?”

 

“The arrows,” Clint says, breathing harshly through clenched teeth. “Get the arrows.” He never leaves them behind if he can help it. It creates confusion when there are wounds but no sign of what caused them, and also, since New York, there’s been a lot of interest in Hawkeye and how he fights with a bow. He doesn’t have any idea who’s going to find these guys, but it’s always preferable not to leave his personal calling card behind.

 

Bucky jumps out of their car and races to Sitwell’s rig. The headlights of their SUV light up the other vehicle and Clint can see Bucky yank the arrows out of the four men. Bucky has a hard time with a couple of them because he’s still only got one good arm, so it’s gruesome and bloody, but he doesn’t flinch. He dashes back with all four arrows and throws them in the SUV, then disappears into the dark to get the last one out of the guy in the Chrysler. He returns in seconds and then they’re moving again.

 

Clint locks his jaw tight to hold back pained noises as they make their way to the end of the bumpy fucking dirt road.

 

“Which way?” Bucky asks as they approach the intersection where it Ts into the state highway.

 

“Uh… Right.”

 

Bucky turns. The transition from the dirt road to the paved highway jolts the car and burning pain lights up his side and head. Clint can't hold back anymore and an involuntary noise escapes the back of his throat.  Bucky shoots a glance at him before pressing the accelerator harder.

 

“Shit, Bucky, slow down,” he gasps. “You don’t wanna get pulled over.”

 

Bucky gives him a dark look. “You’re bleeding and hypothermic. I need to get you someplace where I can take care of that.”

 

“Like you said, I’m okay,” Clint rasps.

 

Bucky makes a dubious sound, but he does let up on the accelerator a little.

 

When the sharp pain dies down to mostly manageable, Clint turns to really look at Bucky and assess what kind of shape he’s in. Bucky’s intensely focused on the road, but his breath is coming faster than it should. His human hand grips the wheel, flexing and releasing. As soon as the road evens out into a straight line, he lets go of the steering wheel to wipe his palm roughly on the leg of his pants. 

 

 _Shit_. 

 

“Where’re we going?” Bucky asks.  His voice is tight, but he seems to be holding it together.

 

“Head south. We need to put some distance between us and those guys back there, and find someplace isolated for an exfil, and we need to call—”

 

Who?  Clint struggles to think it through but his brain is foggy.  SHIELD is obviously still compromised. Nat, maybe, or Phil. They’re probably the only people associated with SHIELD that he trusts right now.

 

“Steve. I’ll call Steve,” Bucky says.

 

Yeah, that works. Captain America is definitely not HYDRA. Bucky’s got things under control so Clint hums agreement and lets himself relax. The road is smooth and lulling now, and before long, his eyes drift shut.

 

****

 

Phil knows he’s taking his life in his own hands when he bursts into Fury’s office without knocking, but his own life is not the one he’s worried about right now.

 

“Tell me you didn’t set him up, Nick,” Phil snaps, not even trying to hide what he’s feeling.

 

Margorie is close on his heels. “I’m so sorry, Director!” she rushes out. Phil can practically feel the daggers that he knows she’s staring at him. He couldn’t care less.

 

“It’s all right, Margorie,” Fury says, looking up from whatever he was reading and sitting back in his chair. “It’s fine. Close the door behind you, please.”

 

Phil doesn’t watch her go but hears her pull the door closed as she leaves.

 

“Have something on your mind, Phil?” Fury asks sardonically.

 

“Barton and Barnes have missed their check-in, and we haven’t been able to reach them.”

 

“And you think I have something to do with that?” He narrows his eye at the insinuation.

 

Phil stands his ground. “I think there might have been more going on with this op than you let on.”

 

“ _There wasn’t_ ,” Fury says sharply. “Not anything more than you were complicit in.” His head tips in indictment.

 

It has its intended effect and Phil deflates a little. Fury has never lied to him that he knows of, and he seriously doubts that he’d start by lying about something to do with Hawkeye. Phil’s been riding feelings of self-doubt since he agreed to Fury’s plan, but it had been difficult to watch Clint struggle, and he’d meant it when he told Nick that he didn’t have any better ideas. He pushes out a frustrated breath. “Sorry.”

 

The tension is instantly gone from the room. “What do we know?”

 

“Not much. Only that they missed their check-in and—”

 

There’s a quick two-rap knock on the door and Margorie pokes her head in. “Agent Coulson, Ops just called up. They’re ready for you.” She’s polite, though her expression makes it clear that she’s still annoyed with him. He’s going to need to make it up to her later. Hopefully the standard nice bottle of wine will do it, but it might be smart to throw in some flowers this time, too.

 

Phil turns for the door and Fury is up and following. When they’re alone in the elevator, Phil continues. “They’ve been checking in on time all week. Like clockwork. When they missed their evening check, we tried to raise them on comms and got no response. We tried all official channels, and their personal cell phones. Nothing.”

 

Fury grunts. “The gun runners?”

 

Phil shakes his head. “We got confirmation a little while ago that they’re making moves in South Carolina, just like we thought they would. It only leaves three possibilities that I can come up with. Well, two, if you didn’t have anything to do with it,” Phil says wryly. Fury rolls his eye, and Phil continues. “Either they started talking just like you wanted and they took off together…”

 

Fury snorts. “You really think Barton would do that?”

 

Phil doesn’t. Clint is too much of a professional to walk out on an op, no matter how angry he is. After he ghosted with Natasha all those years ago when he was trying to bring her in, he and Phil had come to an understanding. Phil trusts him completely, so he doesn’t believe for a second that Clint would do something like that again without cluing him in first. And though Barnes may still be wary of SHIELD, Phil is pretty certain that he wouldn’t take off without letting Rogers know. “No,” he answers Fury. “Which only leaves one possibility.”

 

“Someone else got to them.”

 

Phil nods, wishing it wasn’t the only option he could think of. The elevator dings and opens and they cross the hall into Ops.

 

A tense room becomes even tenser with Fury’s presence. “People,” the Director acknowledges. “What can you show us?”

 

“I’ve got control of one of the drones and it’s sweeping the area,” an agent says from where she’s sitting in front of a large screen. “The cabin is just coming into view.” She points to a blob that can be seen with the night-vision filter. Phil notes that there’s no vehicle visible near the cabin.    

 

They watch as she negotiates the drone down to the front porch. Phil’s gut sinks when he sees the front door is open. Even if it does allow them to easily get inside to take a look, it’s a bad sign. As soon as the pilot navigates the drone through the door, it switches to normal vision and she moves it high into the corner so they can get a broad overview and most of the main room is visible on the screen.  

 

Things are slightly amiss – a couple pieces of furniture out of place – but nothing Phil finds overly worrying. Until, “The floor. Drop down a little, please,” he says, gesturing a line across the screen with his finger.

 

The drone pushes forward and down to the area Phil indicated. Bloody footprints track from the door through the cabin and back. Whoever made them was moving fast.

 

“The tech room,” Fury says, and the drone glides that direction.

 

“Damn it,” Phil murmurs when it banks around the corner. The weapons locker is open and there are definitely weapons missing from it. There’s more blood streaked around the room.  The drone pilot has turned and is waiting for her next order. “Back it out of there,” Phil starts. “Wait!” He leans into the screen. “Zoom in on the touch pad.” The drone doesn’t move but the pilot zooms the camera in to the security lock for the weapons locker. There’s a clear and distinct, bloody thumbprint on it.

 

“Run it,” Fury orders.

 

Two seconds later Clint’s photo and credentials appear on the screen. Phil glances at Fury and he can tell they’re both thinking the same thing: they don’t know if it’s a good sign or a bad one.

 

“Can you move it back outside, please,” Phil says.

 

As soon as the drone breaks the plane of the porch, a red light starts blinking in the corner. “It’s almost out of juice, Sir. It’s got maybe three or four more minutes left.”

 

Fury curses under his breath. “Take it down the road,” Phil orders.

 

The pilot moves the drone down the driveway and everyone reflexively leans closer to the screen as a vehicle comes into view. It looks like it’s crashed into a tree and the doors and back hatch are all open. “Take it in close,” Phil murmurs, but the pilot has already got it heading that way. “Can you brighten things up?” Phil asks, and a second later, the SUV is awash in light.

 

At first, all Phil sees is the blood. The four men visible in the vehicle are covered in red from head or neck wounds, their black clothes are shiny with it. The room has gone still and silent as everyone is taking in the scene. Phil’s pounding heartbeat fills his ears and dread takes root in the pit of his stomach. He scans the faces, terrified one of them will resolve into Clint, but when he finally recognizes one, it isn’t Hawkeye.  Instead, it’s a bald head he’d know anywhere.  He doesn’t for one second regret the relief he feels.

 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Fury mutters beside him.

 

“Shit,” Phil says at the same time.

 

A second later the screen goes abruptly dark as the drone's battery apparently dies.  There's nothing left to be seen here, so Phil turns on a heel to leave.

 

He’s moving at a fast clip down the hall when Fury materializes at his side. “Did those wounds look unique to you?”

 

“They did,” Phil agrees, and he gives Fury credit for not sounding smug about it.

 

They match each other stride for stride as they move decisively down the hall. People scurry to the side to let them pass. “There were only a handful of people who knew we were sending them out and where we were sending them.” His voice is low so no one but Phil will hear.

 

Phil nods. “We’ve still got HYDRA in our ranks,” he says, equally quietly.

 

“Mm hmm. You go find our boys, Cheese. I’ll find the rat,” Fury says, before peeling to the right and disappearing down a side hall.

 

****

 

Clint is roused out of his uneasy sleep when the SUV banks around a sharp corner causing his head to fall forward; he jerks it upright and blinks. He’s warm - that’s the first thing he notices. He’s also weak and his brain is fuzzy, but most of the sharp pain from earlier is now more muted. He scans the road in front of them, looking to get his bearings. It’s pitch-black and there’s no civilization anywhere in sight. They’re not on the state highway any longer - the road is narrower – but other than that, there’s nothing much he can latch onto that tells him where they are. The terrain is flat and there are a lot of trees, interrupted by open space every now and then. They’re in the Midwest, so that doesn’t give him a lot to go on.  

 

Clint rolls his head to the side toward Bucky who casts a glance at him, acknowledging that he knows Clint is awake, but doesn’t say anything. Clint thinks about asking where they are, but he’s groggy and still trying to find the energy to form words.

 

A few minutes later, Clint sees a light up ahead, and Bucky slows as they approach. A break in the tree-line brings a building into view, a flagpole lit up in front of it. Just beyond that is a sign that’s also lit and reads, ‘Crex Meadows State Wildlife Area’. Bucky turns into the drive. The building looks like some sort of combination administrative building/maintenance shop, with offices in the front, and a few large, garage bays around the side.   Bucky pulls in behind a truck that’s parked in front of one of the bays so the SUV is less visible from the road.

 

“It opens at 9. We should be long gone by then.”

 

Clint squints his good eye at the clock on the dashboard. The small green numbers are blurry and he has to blink a few times to get them to come into focus. 2:21 a.m.

 

Something about it sits uneasy with Clint. Barnes said he’d never been to Wisconsin, and this place is well off the beaten path, but he knows how to get here and when it will open?  

 

“How’d you know about this place?” he asks, keeping the question light, easy.

 

“Coulson.”

 

Clint’s insides turn to ice and his mind races as panic bloom inside of him. Had this all been a set-up? Was this whole thing prearranged? Is Bucky still HYDRA? _Jesus,_ is _Coulson_?

 

Somehow, Bucky reads him, which tells Clint he is far off his game. “Hey, hey, relax. I called Steve while you were sleeping,” Bucky rushes to explain, pulling out his phone and showing him the call history. “Coulson was with him because they were already looking for us.  He pulled up a map to find someplace remote they could land a quinjet. He gave me directions.”  

 

“Right,” Clint lets out a relieved breath. “Right, okay.” He laughs a little at his paranoia and the whole goddamn situation.  He can't believe he suspected Phil.  Seeing Sitwell has really done a number on his head.

 

Bucky eyes him for a moment, then unhooks his own seatbelt before releasing Clint’s.

 

“Arm still dead?” Clint asks unnecessarily; his prosthetic is obviously not moving at all.

 

Bucky grunts and reaches across himself to open the door with his human hand. He walks around to the back of the rig and opens the hatch for a second. “Stay put. I’m gonna check things out. I’ll be back soon,” he says, before slamming the hatch shut again. He skulks over to the side door of the building and Clint can see he’s got a crowbar now. A few seconds later, the door opens and Bucky disappears inside. He returns a minute later and opens Clint’s door.

 

“Do you think you can walk?” Bucky asks as he drags the comforter from Clint’s body.

 

The blast of cold shocks Clint’s breath out of him; he starts to curl in on himself until his other injuries protest and he stops.

 

“Clint?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I can walk,” Clint says. He has no idea if that’s the truth or not but it’s the only answer he’s ever going to give.

 

Bucky carefully unwraps the second comforter from his feet and shoves it aside, and by the time he does, Clint’s shivering hard again. Bucky sees it and, moving quickly, he helps Clint rotate in the seat so that he’s turned sideways out the door. “Ready?” he asks, but he’s already tugging at Clint to help ease him off of the seat.

 

As soon as Clint puts weight on his right foot, pain explodes there and his knee buckles. Bucky catches him, his face filled with alarm.

 

Clint steadies himself on his left foot. “I might need a little help,” he admits.

 

“Alright, come on.” Bucky wraps his arm around Clint and helps him hop-shuffle to the door as quickly as they can. Clint grimaces with every step but the cold is worse than the pain so he pushes through it so they can just get inside already.

 

Bucky pulls the door closed behind them and Clint feels instant relief, even though he’s knows it’s no warmer for it. “This way,” Bucky says, guiding Clint past the trucks parked in the garage toward the back of the building. There’s a light already on and he helps Clint into what looks like a kitchen/break room and lowers him down onto a beat-up brown couch in the corner.  

 

“Easy,” Bucky says when Clint hisses from dropping himself down too quickly. He gingerly tips to lie down, propped on his side, leaning against the back of the couch. “I’ll be right back,” Bucky tells him, then flat-out _runs_ out of the room. Clint hears his footfalls sprint across the garage, then the outer door bangs open.

 

Clint’s teeth are clattering again, but he can see that Bucky has turned on the oven across the room and opened the door so the heat will flow out. Better still, Bucky returns 30 seconds later with the two comforters thrown around his shoulders and their sizable first aid box gripped in his one functional hand.   Clint smirks at the sight because he can hardly see Bucky’s face the way it’s buried in the fluffy bedding.

 

“Shut up,” Bucky says, but without any heat and a smile on his own face. “Unless you want me to take these back out to the truck.” Even as he says it, though, he’s laying the blankets over Clint. As soon as he’s covered, Bucky’s back out the door again, this time returning with two rifles and Clint’s bow. He sets them on the floor next to the couch, then crosses the room and roots around in the cupboards until he finds a beat-up old pot.  He fills it with water and puts it on the stove to boil.  While it’s heating, he digs through the drawers. Clint watches him, eyelids dragging down heavily. The next time he opens his eyes, Bucky is back beside him, holding the pot of steaming water and a few clean kitchen towels.

 

He sits on his heels beside Clint and pulls the blankets back, then slowly and carefully removes the makeshift bandages and cleans around the two gunshot wounds. Neither looks overly serious.  The one on his side is a through-and-through that looks like it probably only put a hole in the outer muscle of his abdomin; the one on his triceps is nothing more than a deep gouge.  Clint’s eyes track the movement of Bucky’s hand.  His work is rhythmic and gentle and Clint finds his breathing deepening and his body relaxing, despite the discomfort some of it generates. When Bucky’s done the best he can, he drags the first aid box over to himself. It’s a standard issue SHIELD first aid kit, well-equipped with almost anything they might need for an emergent situation.  He holds up a pre-loaded morphine syringe and raises an inquiring eyebrow.

 

Clint eyes it longingly, but shakes his head. “It’ll put me out, and if we have to move quick...” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

 

Bucky nods his agreement and sets it back in the box. His hand is steady and Clint watches his focused concentration as he rebandages Clint’s wounds. It’s slow going and a little clumsy with only one hand, but Bucky does a more than respectable job of it. It’s too soon to tell if either wound is infected, but Bucky stabs him with a prophylactic injection of broad-spectrum antibiotics before covering him up again in both comforters.

 

Clint reads relief on Bucky’s face as he gives Clint a brief, shaky smile before shifting so he’s nearer to Clint’s feet. He folds the coverings back and then goes very still.

 

“What?”

 

Bucky flicks his eyes up to Clint’s and then back down to his feet.

 

“ _What?_ ” Clint asks again, with growing alarm.

 

“There’s, uh… there’s a _stick_ … in your foot. It’s actually,” Bucky swallows, “it’s actually, all the way _through_ your foot.” He looks up at Clint again.

 

“A stick?” Clint pushes himself up to look and winces at the strain on his injuries. He ignores the discomfort in favor of leaning up a little more to see what Bucky’s seeing. “Holy shit,” he breathes out, staring in mild horror at the jagged end of a small twig that’s protruding up through the top of his foot about an inch. Clint’s been shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, and had multiple broken bones in his life, but there is something about this that’s gruesome like nothing before.

 

Bucky flicks his eyes back and forth. “Should I try to get it out?”

 

Clint thinks about it for a second, then lowers himself back down onto the couch and closes his eye. “Fuck if I know.” He starts to wrap his arms over his face, then thinks better of it when his bruises remind him that it’s not the best idea.  He sighs tiredly.

 

A moment later, he works his eyes open again and looks at Bucky. He’s still frowning at Clint’s foot, apparently trying to work out what to do about it. “Leave it,” Clint decides. It’s far from life-threatening and if help is on the way then real medical care won’t be far behind.

 

Bucky glares at the bloody end of the stick like it personally offended him somehow, but then relents and covers Clint’s foot back up. He gets up and takes the pot back over to the sink and returns a few minutes later with clean water, then sits again and begins carefully wiping the blood and dirt from Clint’s face.

 

Each time he dips the rag into the pot and squeezes it out, the water turns pinker and pinker. The image of Bucky wiping his hands on his pant leg in the car comes back to Clint and he swallows thickly. “Sorry,” he says, voice hoarse, and he clears his throat. “About the blood.” He tips his head toward Bucky’s hand, which freezes where it is a few inches above the pot, pink drops falling into the water with tiny ‘plinks’.

 

Bucky gives him a one-armed shrug. “It’s fine.” He dips the rag back in again.

 

“Is it?” Clint asks, dubious.

 

Bucky’s eyes drop down to the red-tinged rag in his hand, then he drops it and picks up one of Clint's arrows, looking at it thoughtfully.  “It’s funny what you can do when the situation requires it.”  His eyes shift back to Clint's before he sets the arrow on Clint's chest. 

 

Clint snakes his arm out from under the blankets and holds it loosely.  "Yeah," he whispers, and when he looks at Bucky, he sees his eyes flicker to Clint’s mouth and then back up. Clint feels a familiar fluttering low in his belly and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how close they are. Close enough that all he would need to do is reach out and give Bucky a small tug and… Clint shuts down that line of thinking. “I think maybe I need to rest a little.”  He lets his eyes drift shut, but keeps his grip on the arrow.

 

There’s a beat, then he hears Bucky shift slightly and the rag being dipped in and out of the pot to rinse it. “Oka—"

 

Clint startles as Bucky springs to his feet, grabs an automatic rifle and points it toward the door. He holds it one-handed, but does not look any less deadly for it. It sends Clint’s adrenaline spiking and he’s instantly on his feet – or foot, he’s balanced on his left – with an arrow nocked and bow drawn taut.

 

A voice calls out, “Buck, you in there?”

 

“Steve?”

 

“Yeah.  Agent Coulson is with me. We’re coming in, okay?”

 

The two men step cautiously through the door and Phil immediately zeros in on Clint. His mouth forms a hard line as he takes in Clint’s condition. When Rogers eyes finally dislodge from Bucky and sweep over to land on Clint as well, they go wide. And yeah, he guesses he looks pretty bad. His chest is bruised and still painted in blood, and his hair is matted with it. His face is swollen and bruised, and besides the bandages he’s sporting on his side and his arm, he’s wearing nothing but blood-stained and filthy, flannel sleep pants.

 

The moment catches up to him, and the pain flares as his adrenaline rapidly fades.  Clint’s bow clatters to the floor. “ _Ow_ ,” he says, and both Bucky and Phil are there instantly, helping to lower him back on to the couch. Clint’s not gonna lie: when he’s injured, he more or less loves the moment when he can stop being in mission-mode and just… be injured.

 

Cap calls to Bucky, who goes reluctantly, and Phil squats down beside him. Clint can see him taking everything in, assessing his injuries.

 

Clint flaps his hand. “I’m okay,” he mumbles, eyes sliding shut as he feels himself start to let go.

 

“Clint…” Phil says slowly a moment later.

 

Clint peels his eyes open. “Yeah?”

 

“You have a stick… sticking out of your foot.” Phil’s face is warring between disbelief, concern, and humor.

 

Clint sighs. “Yeah.”

 

“I think I’m going to want to hear the story behind that, but right now we need to go.” He starts to stand up but Clint remembers and grabs his wrist.

 

“Phil, wait...” He swallows hard.

 

Phil stops and looks at him questioningly.

 

“Sitwell…” he says, voice tight. His emotions are getting the better of him and it’s embarrassing. Clint should be more in control, but he’s in pain and exhausted – never a good combination for Clint’s emotional fortitude - and Sitwell was one of Phil’s best friends.

 

Phil’s face morphs into an angry canvas. “I know,” he says, then gently pries himself from Clint’s grip and sets Clint’s hand on his lap. “He got what he deserved and my only regret about it is that you had to be the one to do it.”

 

Before Clint can answer, Phil turns his head and says over his shoulder, “Captain, could you…” he gestures with his head toward Clint.

 

“Of course,” Rogers says, and both he and Bucky step over to the couch.

 

Clint holds up his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Hey, no, that’s not—" Clint starts, but Phil cuts him off.

 

“Sorry, Hawkeye, you don’t get a vote here.” Phil lifts his wrist and speaks into it. “Natasha, we’re ready to go.”

 

“Nat’s here?”

 

“Of course she’s here. Who do you think flew the jet?”

 

Clint lets out a short, frustrated groan.

 

Captain America bends down and scoops him up in a fucking bridal carry, and Phil grabs one of the comforters and wraps it around him like he’s a child. “She is never going to let me live this down,” Clint grumbles.

 

Phil smirks and, with Bucky’s help, begins straightening up the room to erase evidence of them being there. A minute later Clint hears the jet landing on the road in front of the building and Rogers starts moving with him in that direction. Clint cringes when the back-hatch lowers to the ground and Nat is clearly visible waiting at the top of the ramp. He almost wishes he didn’t have such extraordinary vision so he wouldn’t have to see her amused expression.

 

“I have a stick in my foot,” he tells her defensively as Rogers carries him past her into the jet.

 

She cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

 

Clint lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, okay, you can put me down,” he says to Cap impatiently.

 

Rogers sets him gingerly into a seat just as the SUV creeps up the back-hatch behind them. Phil and Bucky get out, each giving him their own version of an assessing look, and then Phil looks at Bucky and cocks his head a little, before raising an eyebrow at Clint. God, somebody shoot him and put him out of his misery.

 

The rear hatch begins to close and Natasha pivots and heads to the cockpit, but he couldn’t have missed the laughter in her eyes if he wanted to. And he really, really wanted to.

 

“I have a _stick_ in my foot!” he tries to call after her, but it’s more of a croaking whisper than anything, so it’s doubtful she heard him. Dammit.  

 

A moment later, Phil is beside him, cleaning a spot on his arm with an alcohol wipe and using his teeth to pull the cap from the blessed, blessed morphine syringe. Clint feels the small sting, then the _whoosh_ of the drug surges through him. The last thing he registers is Bucky’s small smile as he settles in on Clint’s other side.

 

****

 

Fury is not who Clint expects to be sitting next to his bed when he wakes up in medical. He doesn’t know who he’d expected – probably Nat, maybe Phil. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he’d hoped it might be Bucky.

 

“Sir,” Clint says, voice scratchy. He is aware that the last time he saw the man, he wasn’t exactly respectful, and what he told Bucky back at the cabin is the truth: Fury and SHIELD are all he has left. Clint tries to sit up a bit more but he is thwarted by Fury’s hand gently pressing him back down. Clint stares at the hand on his shoulder, then looks back up to the single dark eye.

 

“Agent. You’ve had an interesting couple days.”

 

“Is that SHIELD’s new euphemism for shitshow?”

 

Fury snorts. “Sure it is.”

 

“Um. What are you doing here, Sir?” Clint can’t remember a time when Fury _visited_ him in medical, much less was the first person he opened his eyes to.

 

“You have anything you want to share?”

 

Clint’s mind races to figure out what Fury’s looking for. “You want to know about Barnes?” In the pre-op briefing, Phil had said they wanted to assess Bucky’s capabilities in real world situations – it was why they sent Barnes along with him to Wisconsin. “In my opinion, I think he’ll be an asset to the Avengers, Sir. I haven’t seen him shoot in person but his record as a sniper during the War and as the Winter Soldier are pretty well known so—" Fury grunts impatiently and Clint stops. “Sir?”

 

“I don’t need you to tell me what Barnes is capable of. The man nearly killed me a few months ago.”

 

Clint’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that what this whole thing was about? Assessing Barnes’ skillset for the Avengers?”

 

Fury narrows his eye at Clint. “Any idiot with a decent rifle and a good scope can hit a goddamned target, Barton. You ain’t special that way and neither is Barnes. I’ve got dozens of those assholes. What I motherfucking _need_ is the bad. ass. mother. fucker. who stood on top of a building with a goddamned _bow and arrow_ shooting aliens out of the sky when they came to motherfucking _end_ us. What I _need,_ is the agent who’s so goddamned focused that he can run a mile through a motherfucking forest _barefoot_ and practically naked in the middle of winter in northern motherfucking Wisconsin, with two bullet holes in him and only one good eye, and shoot five HYDRA assholes in two moving vehicles at _night_ – again – _with. a._ _bow._ _That’s_ who I motherfucking need. _That_ guy has a place with the Avengers. _If_ he wants it.”

 

Clint is stunned into silence for several seconds and when he recovers, all he can think of to say is, “That’s a lot of ‘motherfucks’, Sir.”

 

“It is indeed,” Fury agrees.

 

“I think it’s a record,” Coulson adds from over by the door. Clint has no idea when he came in.

 

“So… you don’t want _Barnes_?”

 

“Of _course_ , I want Barnes. He’s another super soldier but with the added bonus of a motherfucking metal arm. I’d be an idiot not to want him. Do I look like an idiot to you, Agent?”

 

“No, Sir. You look nothing like an idiot, Sir.”

 

“Right answer,” Fury tells him, then stands. “Good to have you back on the horse, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint swallows and sucks in a deep breath. “Giddyap, Sir.”

 

Fury snorts. “About motherfucking time,” he mutters, stalking away. “I’ll have Helen send over the paperwork,” he calls without looking back as he sweeps out the door.

 

Clint stares after him for a few seconds then furrows his brow and looks at Phil. “Who’s Helen?”

 

“Fury’s new Admin,” he says, stepping up to Clint’s bedside. After a beat he adds grimly, “Marjorie joined SHIELD the same day as Sitwell.”

 

Clint gapes at him. “She was HYDRA?”

 

Phil nods. “From day one.”

 

“Shit.” He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, taking that in.

 

Phil hums in agreement.

 

When he shifts his attention back to Phil, he’s watching Clint closely.

 

“What?”

 

“The Director likes to make assumptions that are convenient to him; I don’t. Using your bow on instinct in a crisis isn’t the same as using it willingly, with forethought and intention.”

 

“No, I guess it’s not,” Clint agrees, looking down at his hands. A second later he jerks his head back up. “Wait. You _knew?_ ”

 

Phil gives him his most unimpressed look.

 

Clint groans and brings his hands up to cover his face. “How long?”

 

“Clint, we have cameras everywhere. Your… atypical reaction to your weapon after the fight in New York did not go unnoticed.”

 

Clint’s face heats, but when he hazards a glance back at Phil, there’s no pity, only understanding.  

 

“So?” Phil asks.

 

So. Clint thinks about it for a moment, pictures himself picking up his bow, puts himself through his range-course paces in his head. His gut swoops but then settles. His braces himself, then mentally puts himself back to the place where Loki was in the driver’s seat: the touch of a spear to his chest; a subterranean base; a theater in Stuttgart. The helicarrier. He gives it a minute, waiting, thinks about Agent Nowak, Agent Harper, Agent Vargas… all of the agents he killed. His eyes reflexively dart to the emesis basin next to his bed, but he doesn’t feel sick. Not even a twinge of nausea. He can’t help feeling that he _should_ be sick and he’s not sure if it’s a victory, but… Clint sucks in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. He nods slowly. “I think I’m okay.”

 

Phil, who’s been watching him silently, gives him a pleased smile and, with what looks like pride in his eyes, extends his arm toward Clint. “Welcome to the Avengers, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you all so much for reading! Comments make me thrive and grow more words.
> 
> Next up: WinterHawk! Yay! And my goal is to post the next (last) chapter before Endgame opens!


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE RATING CHANGE - NOW E**
> 
> I really, really wanted to get this done before Endgame came out because I just KNOW that as soon as I see it, I'm going to want to write fic about it and I didn't want this to be hanging out there incomplete while I got distracted by something new. So that's my long way of saying, apologies if this seems rushed in places. 
> 
> I also didn't have another set of eyes on this final version, so there are no doubt SPaG issues. I'll be cleaning it up in the coming days. But, big shout out to Jackdaws45 and MillyVeil for their ongoing comments and feedback on multiple chapter drafts throughout this fic. You're both lovely and wonderful and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you!
> 
> Big thank you again to heuradys, for giving me the freedom to write what I wanted, but also for giving me lots of great little tidbits to work with for this fic. But most importantly, for making a donation to a good cause in the Marvel Trumps Hate auction. :)

 

There’s actual paperwork, and a lot of it.

 

Fury’s new admin drops off a thick packet the next day and Clint starts to fill it out while he’s waiting for his discharge paperwork. The pen in his hand hesitates over the form that will formally severe him from SHIELD so he can officially move over to the Avengers Initiative. There’s a whole mess of conflicting emotions swirling inside of him, not least of which being that Fury gave him a chance when there was probably no one else who would. He maybe doesn’t always trust Fury 100%, but he can’t deny that he owes the man and the organization a lot.

 

“Fury’s got a hand in the Avengers, too, and I’ll still be working with him some. You won’t be completely separated from SHIELD,” Phil says. The man can still read Clint like a book. “It’s really just more about where your paycheck comes from.” His eyes are kind, and crinkling at the corners.

 

“And where will that be, exactly?”

 

“The Avengers Trust.”

 

“The Avengers Trust?” Clint raises a suspicious eyebrow. “So Stark controls it?” He doesn’t know Tony Stark nearly well enough to be comfortable with the idea of taking orders from him.

 

“Stark funded it to provide for the Avengers’ Initiative, yes. But he doesn’t control it.”

 

“So, who does?” Clint asks warily.

 

“There are two trustees. Pepper Potts…”

 

“And?”

 

Phil gives him a bland smile. “Me.”

 

Clint snorts, but relief washes over him; Phil he trusts 100%, so if he’s controlling the purse strings, Clint’s confident that things will be okay. He turns his attention back to the papers on his lap but he still hesitates.

 

“You don’t want to work for me again?” Phil asks, lightly teasing.

 

“You know it’s not that. I just…” He shrugs, staring at the papers for a moment before he lifts his eyes to Phil’s again. “Are you sure? I mean, they’re… in a whole different league.” It’s difficult for him to admit to his insecurities, and if it was anyone but Phil in this room with him, he never would. It’s not that Clint isn’t confident in his abilities; he is. He knows he can do things with his weapon that pretty much no one else can. At SHIELD, he not only holds his own, but he’s head and shoulders above all the other operatives, and everyone knows it. But held up against gods, super soldiers, and hulks, it’ll be another story. For maybe the first time since he hit a bullseye with an arrow when he was nine, he’s not sure he’ll measure up, and it’s terrifying.

 

“Clint, the way you worked with them after Natasha broke Loki’s hold on you and what you did in that battle should be ample proof that you belong with the Avengers. But if it makes you feel better, I can tell you that you’ve been on Fury’s short list of candidates since the first time he saw you with your bow.”

 

Clint gives him a dubious look. “That was 15 years ago.” Phil doesn’t usually go in for hyperbole.

 

Phil hums a little. “The Director started making a list in 1995, long before he was director.”

 

Clint’s eyebrows shoot upward. “You’re kidding?”

 

Phil shakes his head. “I’m not.”

 

“This sounds like a story I want to hear,” Clint says with a grin, but Phil doesn’t elaborate. “Why?” Clint finally prods him.

 

Phil hums again. “Classified.”

 

“Aw, come on, Phil! I told you the story about how I got a tree through my foot.”

 

Phil rolls his eyes. “It was a 3-millimeter twig, and ‘I idiotically ran through the forest barefoot’ doesn’t rise to the same level of security.”  

 

“I don’t think I used that adverb when I told it.”

 

“I was extrapolating.”

 

Clint laughs. “Are you seriously not going to tell me?”

 

Phil considers for a moment. “Well, this move will give you Level 8 Security clearance, so, technically I _could_ tell you...” He shrugs. “Maybe if there’s spiked eggnog at the Christmas party again this year.”

 

Clint laughs again. “You’ve always been such a fucking tease, Coulson."

 

The banter feels good. And if nothing else, a switch to the Avengers means he’ll get to work with Phil again, and he had missed the hell out of Phil. But when he finally bends over the form and signs it, it’s about impact; he knows that with the Avengers, he can do the most good. He crosses the ‘t’ in ‘Barton’ with a slashing line and when he looks up, Phil is giving him a pleased smile.

 

He’s sliding the forms back into the envelope when the nurse comes in with his discharge paperwork. She leaves ten minutes later after going through his medications and home care, and Clint and Phil are left alone again while they wait for the mandatory wheelchair ride out. For an organization that doesn’t blink at sending its employees into life-threatening situations, they are ridiculously concerned about hospital liability.

 

Clint taps the manila envelope on his lap. “So, how does this work?”

 

“Well, first, you move over to Stark’s tower.”

 

Clint groans. He had his fill of communal living and eating in the circus and his early years at SHIELD. He’s been a fully-grown adult with his own apartment for well over a decade now.

 

“It’s important that the Avengers gel as a team, and Fury and I both feel having you all together at Stark Tower is a preferable alternative to me almost dying again.”

 

Clint’s insides go cold and all the humor in the room evaporates instantly. “That’s not funny,” he says flatly.

 

“Sorry,” Phil says, looking abashed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

Silence hangs awkwardly in the room until Phil clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, trying to move them past it, “you can wait until you’re fully healed up and mission-ready if you want, but I don’t think it would hurt for you to move over there sooner.”

 

Clint sighs. Living with Stark. And Captain America. And Banner and Thor. Jesus. When Nat left, he couldn’t bring himself to ask her what it was like, but he suspects it’ll be like some kind of summer camp on steroids. Not that he has any real frame of reference for what summer camp is like.

 

“Clint.” Phil breaks him out of his thoughts. “It’s not prison. You’ll have your own apartment and you can come and go as you please. You all have your own lives and you can live them. Mostly it’s about building comradery and trust, so that when you are called out, you can work together cohesively.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” he sighs. It’s not like he’s going to turn down a slot on the Avengers because he has to live in a luxury building on the Upper East Side.  

 

“Mandatory team dinners on Tuesday and Thursday.”

 

Clint groans again. There’s always a catch.

 

When the wheelchair arrives, Clint eases off the bed onto his left foot and then gingerly shifts into it, waving off the aid who tries to assist him. Overall, his injuries aren’t that bad – he’s definitely had worse – bruised face and ribs, sutures in his side and arm. His right foot is wrapped in a bulky compression bandage and the day before, when he’d made the mistake of trying to walk on it, he’d been stunned at how painful was. For such a tiny twig, the damn thing had packed a serious punch. Phil’s got a knee scooter waiting for him at home, but maneuvering it through his tiny apartment should be its own interesting challenge.

 

Phil tells the aid that he’ll take Clint out and they wheel down the hall. Once they’re in the elevator and the doors close, Clint summons his courage and glances up at Phil. “So, uh, Barnes,” he starts, and he can feel his ears turn pink. But if he’s making the move to Stark Tower, isn’t not like he can avoid the subject – or the man - forever. “Is he okay?”

 

“He’s fine. His injuries have fully healed already.”

 

“What about his arm?”

 

“Whatever they hit him with zapped the circuitry. Stark was able to fix it pretty easily. He even suggested a small upgrade.” Phil takes out his phone and hold it up for Clint to see a photo. Bucky is sitting in some sort of lab with his shirt off and silver arm on display. The Russian star is gone. The spot where it used to be is shiny and unadorned, a minutely different tone the only indication that the plate isn’t original.

 

Clint reluctantly tears his eyes from the photo. “So, uh, Fury said he wants Barnes, too.”

 

“He always did, but Barnes was waffling. He seems to have changed his mind after what happened in Wisconsin, though.”

 

Clint huffs. “It’s not like that.”

 

“Not like what?”

 

“Nothing happened,” he clarifies. “It was just the safe house thing – when you’re so bored that anyone starts to look good to you.”

 

There’s a long beat, and then Phil says, “I meant he seems to have gotten over his reluctance to use the enhancements that HYDRA gave him.”

 

Clint slaps a hand over his face. “Oh, God, just… please… ignore what I said.”

 

“Hmm, I don’t think I’ll be doing that, no,” Phil says with a gleam in his eye.  

 

Clint groans in embarrassment, slumping down in the wheelchair.

 

They descend in silence for a moment and Clint thinks maybe Phil’s actually let it go, until he says, “So, when you say it was just a safe house thing—”

 

“ _Phil_ ” Clint pleads. He can feel his face flaming.

 

“—are you speaking for yourself or him?” Phil continues.

 

There’s no escape to avoid this conversation. “Both of us,” Clint answers grudgingly.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Clint pushes out a breath. “Look, you know as well as I do that ‘mission attraction’ is a thing. And most of the time, you get home and realize you are not really into the other person.”

 

“Most of the time,” Phil acknowledges, but somehow it doesn’t feel like a victory to Clint.

 

Clint ignores him for the rest of the ride down and, thankfully, Phil doesn’t say anything more about it.

 

****

 

Clint doesn’t move into the Tower right away. He grasps onto the excuse Phil gave him and tells himself he needs to be fully recovered and mission-ready. He tells himself he needs to be sure that he can pick up his bow anytime he wants and hit his targets without throwing up. He tells himself he needs a little time to adjust to the idea – things in his life may have changed for the better, but it still takes a mental reset.  

 

The truth is, he mostly doesn’t want to crowd Bucky. He doesn’t want the man to feel some sort of twisted obligation to follow through on what he’d tried to start in Wisconsin. Bucky needs time and space so he can figure out for himself what Clint told him that night on the bluff: people always seem much more interesting when you’re stuck in a safe house together for a long period of time.

 

Clint has been in enough safe houses over the years to be pretty sure he knows when something is just mission-interest verses real-interest. He made one big mistake about that early on, and it ended with hard feelings and two agents who couldn’t work together anymore. While he’s pretty confident in his feelings for Bucky, the worst-case scenario for Clint would be if they jumped into something, only to have Bucky wake up one day and realize he’d made a mistake. That he hadn’t really wanted _Clint_ , just saw him as some kind of boredom reliever. Because Clint can already see that he’d easily fall in deep with Bucky. He’s halfway there already.

 

And while Bucky figures things out, he sure as hell doesn’t need Clint crowding him.

 

*

 

He finally makes the move a month after their return from Lake Superior, when he can’t put it off any longer. The bullet wounds are long healed and not in danger of reopening if he exerts himself, and the bruises are faded. There’s only a small discomfort in his foot when he runs.  

 

Phil helps him move his belongings and he tries to pretend he’s not looking for a head of scraggly dark hair every time they exit the elevator. When he sees the apartment that Stark is apparently just giving to him, he has to admit, it’s very nice. If nothing else, it’s spacious and bright and situated near Nat’s and Phil’s, which he appreciates. He’s still trepidatious about this new world he’s being dropped into, so having them close feels like having a buffer between him and everyone else until he can get his sea-legs under him.

 

After they get everything moved into Clint’s apartment, Phil leads him back to the elevator. With a knowing smile, he presses the button for floor 55, and when the door opens, Phil ushers him into a vast training range. He tells Clint that Stark had installed when he found out Clint was joining them.   And… wow. It takes up an entire floor, which - _holy shit_ – would mean that it’s an entire city block. It’s also at least fifty feet to the ceiling, so Stark has essentially given over five stories of prime Manhattan real estate for a playground for Clint. It’s set up for half-urban-warfare and half-rugged-terrain, and he’s never seen anything like it in his life. Clint is awed because, okay, first, the fact that the man can have something like this built in less than a month means that he’s got a hell of a lot of connections with contractors and tradesmen and city inspectors. And second… Second, Clint’s throat tightens at the idea that someone would do this for _him_.  

 

Phil smiles. “He’s actually a really good person, once you get past the bluster and get to know him.”  And dammit, there he goes, reading Clint like a book again.

 

Clint is still wrapping his head around it all when he catches sight of a graffitied wall in the urban section and realizes that it’s filled with spray painted messages of welcome from all of the Avengers. It’s hokey as shit, and has ‘Steve Rogers’ written all over it, based on what he’s heard about the guy from Phil and Nat and Bucky, but it still has his Adams apple bobbing in his throat as he tries to quell the rising emotion.

 

“They’re all really glad to finally have you here, Clint,” Phil says quietly.

 

“Uh…” Clint croaks eloquently.

 

Phil smiles and gives Clint’s shoulder a quick squeeze before stepping back into the elevator, leaving him alone so he can reset his world view again.

 

He killed a lot of good people not that long ago, but these people can somehow see past that. Clint isn’t sure what he did to deserve it, but right then and there he mentally commits to every fucking team dinner, team bonding night, team whatever-the-fuck anybody wants, because more than anything else, he wants to be worthy of being called their teammate.

 

****

 

His first day in the Tower is surprisingly quiet. Banner stops by to say hello and apologetically tells Clint that he’s the extent of the welcome committee. Clint knows that Nat is on a milk-run for Fury, but apparently Tony’s at some SI event, and Thor is off-world. Bruce reports that Steve and Bucky have gone to visit some old haunts in Brooklyn. Clint feels a pang of disappointment, since that means he won’t see Bucky, but there’s a sense of relief over that, too; the longer it is before he sees Bucky, the longer he can hold onto the pipedream that Bucky’s still interested.

 

Phil comes to his apartment and they order in some dinner, and okay, yeah, the restaurants on the Upper East Side might be a few notches superior to the crappy places in his old apartment’s neighborhood. Phil doesn’t stay long after they finish, leaving Clint to unpack and settle in. All in all, it’s not a bad first day and not nearly as weird as he was afraid it might be. Some of the tension he’s been carrying in his neck and shoulders eases a bit.

 

Clint is always restless when he’s sleeping in a new place, so his first night at the Tower, he gives up trying and makes his way to the range with his bow at 2 AM. He hasn’t had any trouble using his bow since he came back from Lake Superior, and on this particular night, he’s excited and impatient to see what kind of challenges Stark’s range holds in store.

 

It’s not long before he’s in that headspace where everything else is tuned out as he’s sprinting between obstacles, parkouring over low walls and car chassis, and firing arrow after arrow at the moving targets that are programmed to drop into the course in random places and at unpredictable intervals. It’s exhilarating and it feels so fucking good that he ignores it when the elevator opens and a he catches a glimpse of short dark hair. Nat has told him how Stark sometimes goes into manic phases where he’s up for days straight, creating shit in his workshop. He probably heard from his AI that Clint is here and came to see how he likes it. Might as well show him.

 

After another twenty minutes, Stark’s still there watching and Clint decides he should probably stop and thank the guy, so he starts some cool-down maneuvers. He walks out of the urban section five minutes later, sweating and still breathing hard. He grabs a small towel from his gear bag and wipes down his face and neck. “Hey, Stark,” he calls out, “this place is amaz—” He stops when the shadow steps forward and materializes into Bucky.  

 

“Hey.”

 

“Oh, hey,” Clint says casually, but his heartrate has picked up again. “Sorry, I thought you were Stark.”

 

Bucky ignores that. “So, you know, I didn’t actually _see_ you use your bow in Wisconsin. That was… impressive.”

 

Clint can tell he means it, but he just grunts because he’s never been good at taking a compliment. When Bucky steps closer, under a light where Clint can really see him, his mouth goes dry. “You, uh, you cut your hair.”

 

Bucky grins and runs his hand back and forth across his close-cropped head. “Someone once suggested it. I kind of made a deal with him.”

 

Clint gapes. “That wasn’t… You didn’t have to do that.”

 

Bucky shrugs. “I know. But I heard you were using your bow again, so I figured I should hold up my end of the bargain. And you were right. I don’t need to hang on to that part of the Winter Soldier. I can move on without forgetting.”

 

“Well, it suits you,” Clint says, squatting down and digging through his bag, looking for nothing so he doesn’t have to look at Bucky. Because Bucky looks… good. Really fucking good. And if he had any delusions that his feelings had changed – that his attraction to Bucky had just been due to mission proximity - they’ve just been shattered. Deflect and distract. “So, Stark got your arm working again.”

 

“Yep.” Bucky holds his arm out and flexes his fist. “How’s your foot?” he asks with a small grin.

 

Clint stands again. “Good as new.”

 

Bucky steps right up to him. “So,” he says. “We’re not stuck in a safehouse together anymore.”

 

“No,” Clint agrees.

 

“And judging by what I just watched you do, your head seems to be screwed on a little better.”  

 

“Depends on who you ask.”

 

“If you ask me…” Bucky murmurs.

 

This time Clint sees it coming a mile away when Bucky leans in and brushes his lips against Clint’s. It sends an electric jolt through him again, but again, he gently pushes Bucky back.

 

“Clint,” Bucky says, exasperated.

 

Clint wipes an agitated hand down his face. He wants Bucky. He wants to sink into his blue eyes and drown in these fucking kisses. He wants to learn his body from head to toe and map all the places that make him shiver under Clint’s touch. He wants to wake up next to him and see what the hell kind of crazy bedhead he gets now. It would kill him to have that and then lose it, so he closes his eye for a brief second and gathers his strength. “Look, you need to think about this.”

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t been doing that for the last month? You need to stop thinking of me like I’m some delicate fucking flower, alright? I’m clear on things. This isn’t about being cooped up together. Yeah, we spent a bunch of days at that cabin, and no, you’re not exactly hard on the eyes, but I _like_ you, Clint. _All_ of you. Your sense of humor, your compassion, your brain, your mediocre cooking—"

 

“— _Hey._ ”

 

“--your fucking amazing skills with a bow. _Fuck_. I’m not brainwashed anymore so give me a little credit for knowing my own head, would you?”

 

Clint blinks at him, at a complete loss for words. That isn’t at all what he thought Bucky would say. It’s just sinking in how much he’s underestimated Bucky and that maybe – just maybe – they could have a real future together, when the man grunts in frustration, misreading Clint’s silence.

 

“ _Fine_ ,” Bucky grumbles. “I’ll think about it some more, but when I come back with the same answer,” he jabs a pointed finger toward Clint, “you better be willing to accept it.”

 

And then Bucky’s gone and Clint swears to himself. Goddamn it. He was just about to say ‘yes’.

 

****

 

There’s a knock at the door just as Clint gets out of the shower. He throws on some sweatpants and pulls a t-shirt over his head as he crosses the apartment. He’s is still tugging it down when he opens the door to see Bucky standing in the hall.

 

“So, I gave it some more thought and I haven’t changed my mind.”

 

Clint glances at the digital clock on the microwave. “It’s been, like, twenty minutes.”

 

He nods. “I know. But the thing is, I don’t need any more time. I’m not gonna change my mind.”

 

Clint swallows, and then steps back and opens the door wide.

 

Bucky steps across the threshold and closes the door behind him, leaning back against it. “So,” he says, eyes sweeping around the apartment.

 

“So,” Clint answers, then steps up close to Bucky. He sees the instant Bucky gets it – that Clint is saying yes – and it’s heady to watch his pupils dilate, his nostrils flare. Clint raises a hand to Bucky’s face but hesitates, and Bucky tilts his head a fraction. Clint ghosts his fingertips down Bucky’s cheek, feeling the catch of stubble there before stroking his thumb over the smoother cheekbone a couple times. Bucky licks his lips and Clint’s eyes flick to his mouth. His lips are parted and Clint can’t resist dragging his thumb down to trace over Bucky’s lower lip.

 

Bucky gives him a roguish smile before opening his mouth more and nipping at Clint’s thumb, then pulling it into the wet heat. He sucks lightly, and Clint’s eyes flutter and his stomach _swoops_.

 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he whispers, finally leaning in to press their mouths together, his thumb trailing saliva as it moves to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw, fingers wrapping around the back of his head.

 

The kiss starts gentle, and for a moment, is almost chaste. Until Bucky grunts a little and presses closer, snaking his metal arm around Clint. All Clint can hear is his own heart pounding as the kiss escalates quickly; they both open to it, tongues meeting greedily. It can’t be more than a few minutes before Clint’s mostly hard and starting to feel desperate. He wants to push up against Bucky, feel the unyielding resistance of all that muscle, but he stops himself, instead skidding his mouth across and down Bucky’s neck, sucking lightly and scraping with his teeth. Bucky’s head falls back with a ‘thunk’ against the door and he makes a small choking noise. Clint pulls back.

 

Bucky’s eyes are closed as he lets out a shaky laugh and admits, “I haven’t had sex with another person in over 70 years.”

 

Clint freezes. “Uh…”

 

Bucky opens his eyes and jerks his head up. “What?” he asks with alarm.

 

Clint stands straight. “I just… Um… we’re just.” He furrows his brows. “We’re not having sex.”

 

Bucky blinks at him. “What are we doing?”

 

“Kissing. We're just kissing.”

 

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “But we _are_ going to have sex.”

 

Clint hesitates.

 

Bucky must read that as a ‘no’ because his mouth falls open. “Why the hell _not?_ ”

 

“Um… Because you haven’t had sex in over 70 years?”

 

“And you’re going to make me wait longer?” Bucky asks slowly, clearly annoyed.

 

“I just mean… Don’t you think you want to move more slowly?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes hard, and this is not going well at all. Before Clint can formulate a response, Bucky reaches down to cup Clint’s half-hard cock through his sweatpants, squeezing lightly and giving it a quick stroke. A shockwave runs through Clint and his whole body jolts with it. He’s still on the tail-end of a gasp when Bucky fists his shirt with his metal hand and pulls Clint back in. “Not a fucking delicate flower, Barton,” he mumbles against Clint’s lips.

 

Bucky seems to be pretty sure of things, so Clint relents and starts moving them toward the bedroom. When they get there, Bucky doesn’t waste any time as he peels Clint’s shirt over his head and tosses it away. Clint returns the favor and their mouths find each other again immediately. Clint’s hands are moving, skimming over Bucky’s shoulders and down his sides. When they get to Bucky’s hips, he slides them around to the front and roughly palms the growing bulge in the front of Bucky’s jeans. Bucky bucks a little and groans into Clint’s mouth and that’s got to be one of the hottest things Clint’s ever heard. He does it again and then pops the button on Bucky’s jeans and tugs them open so he can slide his hand inside.

 

Bucky breaks the kiss and pulls back so he can look down at where Clint is stroking him. Clint glances down, too, and can see the head of Bucky’s cock is just visible, peaking out of the top of his boxerbriefs. It’s much more interesting to watch Bucky’s face:  his lips are red and kiss-swollen, and as Clint keeps up a steady rhythm of stroking, his eyes roll up slightly and his eyelids drift shut. Clint gives it another moment, before leaning in and kissing Bucky again, a soft press of his mouth, before catching Bucky’s bottom between his teeth and tugging a little as he pulls back.

 

“Clothes off,” he says, reaching for the ties on his own sweatpants. Bucky stands dazedly for a second before kicking into gear. He quickly toes off his shoes and then strips off his pants and underwear in one go, before stepping out of them. A second later, he’s laid out on the bed, and Clint’s breath catches at the sight. He’s beautiful: muscular and hard, a smattering of dark chest hair resolving into a faint line that trails downward. His cock is thick and has one fat vein that runs straight up the length of it until it curves around near the top. Clint can't resist and he leans down, running a quick tongue along it from bottom to top. Bucky hisses loudly and bucks his hips upward, hands automatically jumping to Clint’s head.  

 

Clint gives the head of Bucky’s cock a single, light suck, then glides upward, spreading himself over Bucky with their legs scissored, so skin can meet skin everywhere. Their cocks bump and rub against each other and Bucky lets out a small groan. Clint smiles and grinds his hips down as he dips his mouth to skim, open-mouthed and wet kisses along Bucky’s neck. He feels the vibration from Bucky’s longer groan against his lips and he scrapes his teeth lightly. “Fuck… _fuck_ ,” he hears Bucky whisper.

 

Clint props himself up onto his elbows, arms wrapped under Bucky’s shoulders, and kisses him again, deeper than before, but still slow. He dips his mouth in, snakes his tongue into Bucky’s mouth for a second and then pulls back, over and over, slowly rocking their hips as he does. They’re both sweaty already and leaking pre-come, and the slide and friction of their bodies against their cocks has them both breathing hard.

 

Bucky’s human hand is touching him, smoothing lightly down his side, over his ass, across the top of this thigh. Clint is so caught up in the moment that it takes several seconds to realize that Bucky’s metal hand is hovering off to the side and that Bucky is putting a lot of effort into keeping it still.

 

Clint trails kisses down Bucky’s neck again, and then continues across his collarbone to the juncture where Bucky’s human shoulder meets metal arm.  He runs his tongue over the gnarled scar tissue there and presses soft kisses along the seam. When he glances up, Bucky is completely still, staring wide-eyed at Clint. Clint sits up and adjusts, so that he’s sitting astride Bucky’s thighs. He spits into his hand and grasps Bucky’s cock. He starts stroking, slow and even, as he trails three fingers of his other hand slowly down the length of Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky shivers under his touch.

 

“What does it feel like?” Clint asks quietly, thumb rubbing a light circle around the top of Bucky’s hand.

 

“Uh,” Bucky’s voice catches. “Like my other one… but more.”

 

Clint’s eyebrows rise and both hands stop moving. “More?”

 

Bucky nods jerkily. “Heightened tactile sensitivity and improved manual dexterity,” he says tightly, pushing his cock impatiently through Clint’s fist.

 

Clint gives Bucky’s cock a couple more firm strokes then lets go in favor of using both hands to gently pull Bucky’s metal hand up to look at it closely, caressing the fingers and palm of Bucky’s hand as he does.

 

“Heightened tactile sensitivity?” Clint asks in confirmation.

 

“Y-yeah,” Bucky rasps.

 

Clint quirks his lips upward and then pulls Bucky’s metal fingers to his mouth and drags his tongue up Bucky’s index finger, from palm to tip. Bucky gasps. It tastes surprisingly neutral; it doesn’t taste like human skin, but there’s no metallic taste either. Clint nips at the tip of Bucky’s finger then slides his mouth down over the whole thing, up and down several times. Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on Clint’s and his breath hitches. Clint pulls a second finger in. The metal fingers have no give like human fingers would, but they move like human fingers and that feels sexy as hell in Clint’s mouth.

 

Clint sucks lightly, then rubs his tongue against the pads of the fingertips, swirls it around the two digits, and in between them. Bucky’s eyelids drift closed and his breathing picks up into a small pant. Clint gets lost in it for a minute, the smooth metal against his tongue as he memorizes the tiny lines and ridges, and watches Bucky’s reaction.

 

Bucky moans, just as his cock twitches, bouncing against his abdomen and leaving a thin line of pre-come stretching between the head and Bucky’s abs.

 

_Heightened tactile sensitivity. Fuck._

 

Clint could watch that all day, but his cock is getting impatient, so he builds the saliva in his mouth and when he tugs Bucky’s hand free, he spits in Bucky’s palm. “You can touch me with it,” Clint murmurs, guiding the wet hand to Clint’s cock. “It doesn’t bother me,” he tells Bucky, wrapping his own hand over Bucky’s, and stroking up and down. It’s hard but smoother than a human hand and the combination has Clint’s body lighting up with the sensation.

 

“You’re fucking crazy, Barton,” Bucky pants.

 

“Never denied that,” Clint laughs.

 

Too soon, Clint is on the edge and he’s not anywhere near ready for this to be over, so he gently pushes Bucky’s hand away, and then surges forward to capture Bucky’s mouth again.

 

Clint keeps the kisses light, tongue slipping in and out as his lips press forward and pull back. He hovers just above Bucky’s body, only the tip of his cock skipping and dragging across Bucky’s skin. It’s maddening for Clint, but it pulls him back from the edge.

 

After a couple minutes of unrepentant teasing from Clint, Bucky makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat and finally pulls Clint closer. He wraps his human hand around Clint’s neck and shoves his tongue greedily into Clint’s mouth, his metal hand pushes hard at the small of Clint’s back while he presses his body upward.

 

Clint groans because the full slick-slide of Bucky’s body against his own feels incredible, but he only gives in to it for a few seconds because Bucky feels like on his way to speeding toward his climax and Clint’s got other plans. He presses his hands to the mattress next to Bucky’s head and disengages their mouths, then rocks back onto his knees, taking away all their contact.

 

“Ah, fuck, _Clint!_ ” Bucky groans, eyes squeezed tight in frustration.

 

“Shhh. It’s alright,” Clint murmurs, sitting on Bucky’s thighs again. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

 

Clint wants to do so many things to Bucky. He wants to find all the places on Bucky’s body that make him squirm or gasp or shudder. He wants to take Bucky’s cock, thick and heavy and salty, into his mouth and tease him until Bucky grabs his hair and comes down Clint’s throat. He wants to open him up, with his tongue and then his fingers, and then fuck him, maddeningly slow, until Bucky’s a quivering mess. He wants to sit him on a chair in the pristine dining room that Stark has provided him, and ride Bucky hard and fast until they both come, gasping into each other’s mouths.

 

But all that will have to wait, because right now, he really just wants to see what Bucky’s looks like when he comes. Clint leans forward a little so that he can get their cocks lined up just right, then spits into his hand and wraps his long fingers around them both, stroking from root to hip. Bucky hisses and his eyes snap open, hips jerking up.

 

Clint waits for Bucky to settle, then starts to rock his hips, slow and steady, holding his hand still and letting the friction of their cocks do the work. Bucky responds quickly, pushing up into Clint’s fist in counterpoint, and _fuck_ , that’s hot. It’s heady, watching Bucky respond to his touch - watching his face go slack with the pleasure that Clint’s giving him.

 

Once they find their rhythm, it’s only a matter of a couple minutes before their both breathing heavily and Bucky’s body is glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Clint can feel his own orgasm building low in his pelvis, so when Bucky’s hips start to falter and lose their pace, he grabs Bucky’s metal hand and brings it back up to his mouth, pulling two fingers in and sliding his tongue between them.

 

Bucky’s back arches high up off the bed and he comes with a shout, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Three lines of white come paint his chest, before two smaller pulses spill over Clint’s hand and their cocks. Bucky’s come smooths the glide and the new sensation is all it takes to send Clint over the edge himself. He comes with a gasp and falls forward, letting go of the metal hand in time to catch himself from collapsing onto Bucky.

 

“Oh fuck… fuck,” Bucky slurs. He grasps the back of Clint’s neck and pulls him down, mashing their mouths together over and over, panting between wet kisses.

 

Clint keeps stroking them lightly, wringing the last drops of come from them both. When it gets to be too much, Clint lets go and eases himself down, then flops onto his back. He blindly reaches over to the bedside table and grasps a wad of tissues from the box to clumsily wipe the come off of them both. He tosses it onto the floor, not caring at all about the mess. They lie next to each other catching their breath for a minute until Clint turns his head to ask, “Are you okay?”

 

Bucky huffs and rolls onto his side, draping half his body over Clint’s and wrapping his arm around Clint’s chest. “Not a delicate flower,” he mumbles, then sucks in a yawn, before tucking his face into Clint’s neck and seeming to immediately pass out.

 

Clint’s exhausted. He hasn’t slept since the previous night. He also spent two hours pushing himself hard on Stark’s course, and just had sex, so he should be passed out now, himself. But there’s no way he can sleep with someone caging him in like this. Still, he stays where he is, because Bucky’s breathing is even and steady and he seems so peaceful that Clint is loath to move and wake him. He is just starting to mentally plot new routes through the mountain course on Stark’s range as a means to occupy his time, when Bucky shifts, squeezing Clint a little tighter and nudging at his neck with his nose.

 

“By the way,” he mumbles, “I googled BDSM. That’s some kinky shit, Barton.”

 

Clint laughs quietly and then, since Bucky’s awake, he manhandles him around so he can spoon up behind him and sling an arm loosely over Bucky’s side.

 

Bucky doesn’t object, just mutters, “What, are you like, a Dom or something?”

 

Clint nips at the back of Bucky’s neck and he can feel the rumble of Bucky’s chuckle, more than hear it. Bucky pulls Clint’s arm tighter around him, and Clint smiles, then presses a kiss on the spot he just bit, and drifts off to sleep.

 

 

~fin~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I always appreciate if you stop to let me know what you think. It's a huge motivator!

**Author's Note:**

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